


The Hunted

by FourthAxis



Series: Hunting Grounds [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Angst and Feels, BAMF Will, Conflict of Interests and Feels, Crazy Dreams, Dark Will, Italian locations, M/M, Morbid Hurt/Comfort, Murder, Murder Husbands, Physical Abuse, Plotty, Post-Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Suicidal Tendencies, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, haunted mind palaces, post-mizumono, ridiculous crime scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 07:44:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 57,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1974639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourthAxis/pseuds/FourthAxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The worst part about waking up in the hospital was waking up at all.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Something unfixable broke inside him. Something that was already broken, but now even more so. </em>
</p><p>Will Graham cannot fathom another return to the correctional facility, so he ensures his own freedom in the only way he sees possible – running. He just so chooses to run towards a particularly destructive path, following a very familiar trail of blood spilling across the Atlantic Ocean. </p><p>But he’s not the only one hunting and very quickly he finds himself under a dangerous thumb. The pigs have an excellent sense of smell, and while they may prove to be fatal they are also an <em>opportunity</em>. </p><p>(Post-Mizumono S02E13)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A post-S2 fic that's a squeal to [THE HUNTER](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1508864), a fic that's canon compliant with the later half of S2 to a T. Basically if you saw the show you're good to go as far as this fic is concerned. The only non-canon thing that this fic continues from THE HUNTER is the fact that the relationship between Will and Hannibal was far more physical.
> 
> Also for those who read THE HUNTER and find themselves experiencing a deja vu, that's because this chapter is/was Ch.7 in that fic, only now it has a few fixes and a _lot_ more meat.

Leaving the country with charges and a frozen passport hanging over one’s head should not be this easy. But for a man whose mind worked in a constant momentum of contingency plans it was barely an issue. The company, on the other hand, was a little unexpected. A lot different.

A good twelve hours had passed since the incidents and the reports were plentiful. Modern technology allowed Bedelia Du Maurier to read through most, if not all of the news. She waltzed around the subject with great care and a face of stone, but it wasn’t until they were half way across the Atlantic Ocean when she posed a question that addressed the situation directly.

“What happened, Hannibal?”

She regarded him they way she would a patient, the way she used to, or tried to at least. His eyes were cast ahead on an old French movie, but his attention was elsewhere; miles away on a shore growing more distant by the minute. In his hands he still nursed a glass of champagne, the fourth one, untouched and exposed to the point of losing its fizz. Bedelia didn’t have to try it to know it was a cheap and possibly revolting brad. All she had to do was look at his face when he took the first sip, and then another, and then a third. Why he continued, she could not tell. Why he took a glass every time the flight attendant passed, she could not tell either. But this would probably be the last one.

“I blinked,” Hannibal said after an overdrawn pause. He settled more comfortably in his chair and finally sat down the glass of champagne on the tray in front of him. “As it turns out, some eyes are more distracting than others,” he flashed a smile with a lazy side glance but his head did not turn. Fake and uninterested; he was unwilling to proceed on this particular topic.

Unfortunately for him, Bedelia did not lack the insight on this issue. In fact, she’d wager she had too much of it. Abigail’s name mentioned in the massacre almost didn’t surprise. The surprise was her personal failing for not even assuming such a thing possible. She should have. It made too much sense. Hannibal’s obsessions with the profiler ran deep, and such a coaxing ace was a logical thing to keep in one’s sleeve. Especially for a man like Dr. Lecter who always made sure he was five steps ahead of everyone else.

And yet here he was, on a flight of victory with his freedom intact, and displeasure around him so palpable and thick Bedelia could cut it with a knife if she had one. There was a misstep in his grand scheme, that much he admitted a moment ago. But there had to have been more to it. The festering wound of betrayal was evident, but something else, something stronger bubbled under the surface. Something Hannibal would rather not address; not to her, not to himself and most certainly not now.

“We are the architects of our own disappointments,” was all she told him. The subtle shift on Hannibal’s face, the thinning of his lips and the clench of his entwined fingers was all she needed to see.

Regret.

+++

The worst part about waking up in the hospital was waking up at all.

The doctor came in when Will woke up from what felt like a weeklong nightmare and proclaimed him _lucky_. If he wasn’t so groggy from medication and sleep, he would have gladly tore his stitches open just to swipe away all those teeth from the doctor’s pleased face.

Luck had fuck all to do with this. The fortune of living was a vicious gift from a man cut by betrayal. A vicious, wounded man. Behind every lazy drop of his eyelids Will could see, smell even, his blood dripping across the ocean. They did not catch him and Will didn’t need anyone to confirm that; he knew as much the moment he woke up.

The grim of Will’s thoughts reflected on his face and the doctor did not bother with any more charming notions. A nervous nurse helped him sit up as much as he was allowed as the doctor gave him the short of his condition – _fine_ was the key word. Don’t exert. Don’t lift. Don’t run.

As the evening set, a visitor came. Jack walked in wearing plain cotton pyjamas and a bath robe over his shoulders – an odd sight for a man who always presented himself dapper. An IV stand rolled along with him as a crutch. The thick wrappings around his neck looked alarming, but his steady walk indicated he felt a lot better then he looked. And he looked sullen. Defeated. Sleepless.

“Good morning, Will. How are you feeling?” His voice was raspy and slow as he tried to be pleasant, but neither of the two was in the mood for such things. Jack sat on the edge of Will’s bed, one hand still gripping the stand, and he got down to what really mattered. “It’s been three days. I’ll be leaving tomorrow, Bella’s been—” he cut himself off and switched to something Will would be interested in.

“Alana will live, but... That’s about all they can tell me right now. Most likely lost her legs,” his voice was stiff. The three days served Jack well enough to get him to speak of the event with as little emotion as possible, but Will still noticed the fake shift of his tone. The pain. “And that girl... My god, I don’t even know how to explain her presence there but she’s—”

“She’s dead, Jack. Abigail’s been dead for a long time now,” Will spoke a half-truth that he was going to force feed himself if he had to. He needed to believe it for her sakes more so than anyone else’s.

Jack looked at Will as if he were a delirious man. A deliriously cold man, if the tone of Will’s voice was anything to go by. But he let it go. Perhaps he even understood.

“Prurnell gave us some room to breathe,” Jack let out a short chuckle that laced his face with pain almost immediately after. “She held off the charges until the end of the week. By then I’ll figure something out.”

“You’re suspended,” Will assumed but presented it as fact.

“I still have my connections,” Jack paused again, visibly strained by his throat. “Price and Zeller are taking care of your dogs. And your house, uhh... It happened yesterday evening. I don’t know much about it. You should ask one of the nurses to get you the papers or something,” he didn’t elaborate further but Will didn’t ask either.

“I’m getting locked up again, aren’t I?” Will noticed an officer pacing for the third time outside the open door of his room.

“Prurnell put him there but... Don’t worry. I’ll do something about it.”

“Something, huh?” There was a sour smile on Will’s face. He closed his eyes momentarily to hide their roll and sunk his head back in the pillow. “Thanks. That has thoroughly assured me of my future.”

Nothing Jack could do would help him, as much as Jack wanted to, or felt obliged to. If he couldn’t help himself no one else would. Perhaps it was high time to be a little selfish.

Jack got up, clearly unwilling to fuel unnecessary fires. “Read the papers,” he told him as he went for the door and stopped at the frame to turn with a few more bits of news. “There’ll probably be a warrant to search your house,” Jack said but left out the question that might seem too accusing. “Also, there was a call...”

 _There we go._ Will closed his eyes again, mulling further over the first ideas that would settle eventually into something that could be called a plan. Anything to get the gloom out of his head, to stop himself from comprehending what his life was about to become. It hurt, the impending loneliness. It shrouded him like an unwelcomed friend all his life, but this time it was different. Everything became different when you allowed yourself to be loved.

“There was a call Hannibal Lecter received ten minutes before my arrival,” the name came out with a razor’s cut that coloured the rest of Jack’s words with bitterness. Will knew exactly where this was going. But the mention of his name pained Will, physically, and he couldn’t tell if the throbbing came from his wound or his chest. “They didn’t tell me who it came from yet,” and Jack let it hang there, once again, a question unsaid. But this one was a lot more accusing.

“Say it, Jack,” Will demanded but he was met with silence overdrawn. “Say it!” Eyes snapped open and his head lashed in Jack’s direction. As if a rabid dog just bared his teeth at him, Jack flinched.

But he said nothing.

He left without saying anything at all.

+++

A rusty, shrinking cage kept him sleepless for the night. The smell of dirty bed sheets clinging to his skin, the rats in the walls with their crunching and their scratching, the sound of a madman down the hall yelling obscenities. The mind was an awfully paranoid tool, a bit predictable in its work but still effective. Fear kept him up for a night. He used it like a blade to sharpen his senses into a focus, into a goal. A compass that needed remagnetizing to find its direction again. And while the new direction was certainly beneficial, it was also ominous in nature. It pointed towards silent needs and wants that were at a discord with basic instinct of survival.

_Get out. Run. Survive._

It was best no to ask further. Will let the ambivalence be, let it drag him like a violent stream towards a singularity of all that was wrong in his life, with his life. He did not expect a favourable outcome from it other than a resolution. An end.

Something he should have gotten in that dreadfully cold kitchen.

Eidetic memory was a painful companion. He smelled rust for the rest of the day and the pleasant looking hospital food tastes worse than the muck they fed him behind bars.

+++

Will played nice and sweet with the nurse for more than one reason. The first one was for sleeping pills. He insisted with a pleading voice, citing nightmares that would not let him rest even before the attack. He told her of his restlessness, sleepwalking, anxiety, he made shit up just so she would get him something strong. The soft plea his sleep-deprived eyes faked was what won her over as she wordlessly left only to come back with painkillers and a sleeping pill. She watched him take it and wished him a good night, leaving the door ajar because he lied that hallway light helped him sleep.

He swallowed all but the sleeping pill. It ended up in the drawer of his cupboard waiting for a better use.

Most of the night Will spent tracking the agent outside his door. Tracking all the times he went for a cup of coffee. The crack of dawn finally took him with sleep and he dreamed of a kitchen, spotless, glistening in metallic hues. Cold and wet. A familiar set of regal, dark eyes watched him and a pair of grief-stricken voices asked each other why it had to happen like this.

A violent jerk woke him and his injury reacted accordingly. Through the fog memory he vaguely recalled a glint from something small and sharp, but no dread followed him out of the dream. Instead a wistful sentiment, soon to be replaced by a painful solitude. In the haze of his waking strain he saw a few fleeting rays of daylight shine over the raven stag. It stood at the foot of his bed, still as a statue and its antlers were doused in crimson. Its hide too was marred with flecks of a shining red. It bled but it also waited. Encouraged. _No more room. Not here. Not in this life._

Something unfixable broke inside him. Something that was already broken, but now even more so.

+++

He asked the same nurse, very nicely, if she could get him something to read the news with. He didn’t specify the papers, hoping she would bring him something better. It took her a while to get back to him, several hours even, but she came with a tablet he could have for a short period.

It was more than enough for what Will wanted to check.

The news about the bloodbath was everywhere, even five days after but he avoided all of it; it didn’t interest him. Only a few news outlets also cited the strange ransacking in Wolf Trap. A house that belonged to one of the victims, vandalized, but as far as the authorities could tell nothing was stolen. Just brutally vandalized.

It took Will only a few connections of dots to pinpoint the possible culprit. He didn’t allow his mind to dwell on it too much, the thought of his safe haven destroyed. It’s not like he could come back to it, as much as he wanted. Will could never return to his house, not now when the treat of incarceration hung over his head once more. A small favour was the fact that the dogs were out of the house during the attack. They specifically would not have survived otherwise.

Still, that was not the news he was looking for. Not entirely, at least. TattleCrime.com was the one site he was really interested in. Freddie, ever the resourceful woman, had a lot of early scoops and a thousand hits too many all thanks to her miraculous resurrection and the great tale of _Hannibal the Cannibal_. Quite a few of the articles were vanity projects, but Will didn’t care for that. Plenty of articles detailed the aforementioned massacre, tacky titles included. She spared no one in her factually questionable stories, citing Jack Crawford as the man who _dropped the ball_. Articles were filled with images from the crime scene, blood still fresh on the walls. But also with images of bed-stricken people.

Will barely recognized himself, with all the apparatus, tubes and needles going through him; an image that was probably taken moments after surgery. How she got to them was anyone’s guess, but they were far too close and personal to be anything other than a violation and a trespass. The title above suggested with unkind words his involvement with the titular cannibal and the text was filled with wild speculations, lucky guesses and a handful of accusations that would make even the FBI nervous. Randall Tier’s name had quite a few obligatory mentions as well. Her own attack too, lest the world forgot her drudgery. The picture of Alana Bloom was one Will didn’t even recognize; her head fully wrapped in bandages and an oxygen max over her face. The title _Sleeping with the Chesapeake Ripper_ is what gave the identity away. Freddie remained equally unkind even in the regards of a woman who was yet to wake.

Will’s nerves were beyond rattled, they seethed, but he held that tablet with steady hands and continued to scroll until he found what he was looking for. He knew it was there, it had to be. That one article that would push the already spilled glass over the table. For good measure and less guilt.

The title was simple, at least, but that was a small favour. _Abigail Hobbs – Victim or Accomplice?_

Will read no further. He turned off the tablet and buzzed the nurse before he’d done something far worse to the poor piece of machinery.

He got another sleeping pill that evening that got dusted with a sturdy metal cup in the morning of the next day. The painkillers he took gladly.

Another two days were necessary for him to be sure on his feet and in his walk. Long strides were bearable but not running. The nurse was annoyed to always find him pacing around his room but Will feigned frailty as soon as someone would enter.

The end of his grace period was approaching with the upcoming dawn. Staying was out of the question. He had no one to say good bye to either. Alana was somewhere in the hospital but they would not tell him where. She couldn’t hear his good bye anyway. And Jack...

Jack surprised him. He came that afternoon wearing a simple dark suit and a plain old jacket over his arm. Far less dashing then his usual self; it lacked that flair and notability Jack had. No tie as well. His neck was still in bandages but he did look a lot livelier. A hat was planted firmly on his head. Jack slinked in without a hello and closed the door. He joined Will by the window where he stood basking in the fleeting rays of sunlight, mapping trajectories across the parking lot.

“You look a lot better. That’s good,” Jack said as he reached for something in his suit. A brown envelope overstuffed with things a lot harder than papers. He slid the envelope on the window sill towards Will. “It’s something,” he quirked a smile. “Not much but... They plan on taking you to BHCI tomorrow.”

Will assumed as much but his wide-eye stare attested to Jack’s surprising visit. “I wasn’t expecting this,” he felt the sturdy objects through the paper and added “or the visit.”

Jack let out an exasperated sigh and looked at Will apologetically. “I should have never let you go through with this. It was too close,” he grabbed tightly Will’s shoulder. “I ignored the warning signs. I thought of my needs before anyone else’s and I turned out a poor friend in that regard.”

“Oh Jack,” Will couldn’t help his chuckle. “I would have gone through with it whether you were in it or not.” How that hypothetical situation could have gone was anyone’s guess. Perhaps worse, perhaps better. It mattered little in the moment. What was done was done. But there were still too many string left dangling, unfinished.

“You have an exit planned, I assume?”

“Of course,” Will sounded poignant. “I can take care of myself, don’t worry.”

“All right,” Jack checked his watch. “Can’t stay for much longer. I’m not supposed to be here,” he looked at Will with his usual commanding eyes and added, “I never was here.”

“Oh, that explains the clothes,” Will snickered eyeing him along his length. Jack took the remark with a humorous amount of irk.

“I’ll have you know, this is the suit I got married in.”

“Bella must have been thrilled with your choice.”

Jack smacked him on the shoulder before pushing himself away from the window sill. “I hear Florida is good this time of the year.”

“I was thinking somewhere a little more exotic.”

“Wherever you want, as long as it’s far from here. Take this chance, make something new of it.” He offered Will a smile but it lacked conviction. Jack knew damn well how hard such a thing would be. “I wish this could have ended differently for you. But I assure you, he will be hunt down. Even if I have to make friends with the Interpol again.”

They said their good byes, one last shake of hands. Will was glad he even got this much of closure. Jack’s parting gift was a lovely blessing.

“Really?” he spoke to himself as he read through the information on his new passport and ID. “John Smith? Not very original, Jack...” But it would suffice. There was even a twenty for the cab in there.

+++

10:35 PM. The officer just got his coffee. He was a young guy, late twenties, and a chatty fellow. Eager to assist too, so long as Will held himself like a broken and frail man. He tested this out yesterday and the day before, so he had no doubts in the fairly simple scheme. Everything was the same, just like the last two times, except for the white dust in his hand.

Will opened the door of his room and leaned against the door frame. The look he gave the officer was a meek plea as he swayed the empty jug of water in his hand. The other arm was wrapped around his stomach, fist clenched around some paper that held the finely crushed sleeping pills.

“Out of water again,” he rasped. “Could you...” Will nudged his head towards the bathroom several feet away.

The officer smiled and complied wordlessly, clearly a little bothered for not having the first sip of coffee to himself. He left the small plastic cup of vending machine sludge on his folding chair. The ten second of grace period Will had was more than enough to empty the powder into the cup and give it a quick stir. He could afford the stir because the officer, helpful as he was, always brought the jug into Will’s room himself. Even poured him a cup. Plenty of time for the liquid to inconspicuously settle.

10:56 PM. Will heard the sound of a plastic cup fall to the floor. _Don’t exert, don’t lift, don’t run._ The only rules the doctor gave him and all of them were about to be broken throughout the night. Maybe the running wouldn’t be needed, but even a speedier pace was a chore for Will. The officer’s limp body was not an easy weight to get on his bed, even if the risked the screech of the folding chair as he used it to drag him in. A stitch or two might have gotten loose when Will felt a pang of sharp pain spike through him. But he didn’t stop to check. Instead he stripped the young man from his dark blue uniform, wrapped him in sheets and blankets and turned him on his side. The nurse that tended to him got used to Will’s fucked up sleeping schedule and he had convinced her to leave the covered breakfast tray on the counter if she saw him still sleeping. A shame the officer had no weapons on himself, but there was at least a taser.

11:15 PM. Very few members of staff saw him through his stay, but still Will took no chances and raked wet fingers through his shaggy hair, slicking back the curls and flattening them with the police hat. It’s been a long time since he saw himself in a uniform. He admired the nostalgic view for a few moments in the bathroom before he walked out, back as straight as he could muster. His pace was not too quick and certainly not fast. Leisurely, he’d think. Not that there was much of anyone to see him. The few members of staff on the reception barely greeted him with a look, far too preoccupied with patient records. The cabbie he stopped gave him an odd look but he didn’t ask any questions and Will certainly didn’t bother offering any explanations either. He got twenty for the silent drive that gave Will more than enough time to settle his heart rate and daringly hope for _slightly_ better days.

11:42 PM. Wolf Trap, Virginia. The pale moon was the only light he had to lead him back to his little white house in the middle of snowy nowhere. A lonely and empty house now. Broken. Will tried not to draw comparisons.

The porch was covered with police tape, the door offset and ajar. One of the windows on the porch was smashed into pieces, glass shard covering the outside. Everything was vandalized and turned over, tarnished and shattered. Not a chair or a table left unturned. Even the tiny dog figurines he kept on the fire place were knocked down and turned into fractured pieces of porcelain. Some of the lamps on the ceiling still worked though, which gave him just enough light to find what he needed and get out before the moment would overwhelm him. Will did notice an odd thing under the light. Among all the chaos of splintered wood, broken plates and upturned furniture, there was something missing. The living room rug and one of his armchairs. His suspicions of the culprit where even more affirmed, but the more he was sure of it more nervous he felt.

Not someone he’d want breathing down his neck, all things considered. But a familiar way of though, half his own and half not, reminded him that some situations could be turned into opportunities.

Will grabbed and old beige linen gym bag that saw few gyms but plenty of river banks. His bedroom was not left untouched but they couldn’t quite tip the heavy armoire over. Instead they rummaged through it and scattered clothes around. He picked a good deal of necessities off the floor and a few extra plaid shirts because life was simply not complete without them. Under the mounds of old winter blankets in his closet he found one of his guns with a half empty clip. The wallet took some work to find, the keys of his car even more. But Will didn’t rest, didn’t slow down, didn’t stop even when all things were accounted for and his body begged for sleep after a momentary rest.

He turned off the light and made his way out, stubbing his foot and cursing in the dark. Will couldn’t wait to leave, couldn’t wait to forget this ugly mess and yet, at the same time, the though devastated him. The smell of his dogs lingered in the furniture; a reminder of friends he actually wanted to say good bye to but couldn’t. He stumbled out the door that barely hung by the frame and in his haze of though a sharp, loud sound boomed with a frightening echo that spread through the woods. Will yelped and dropped his bag at the sudden fright. But the moment of fear was short lived when he realised what had made the sounds.

“Oh my God. Winston?”

+++

Several ATMs and one pharmacy later, Will parked his car on a lot belonging to a small hotel on the outskirts of Baltimore. He wasn’t here to spend the night, but he did take the advantage of a packed lot to pick out some different licence plates before he’d go about his business. The pills he bought at the pharmacy were barely half the strength of those he got in the hospital, but moving around kept him busy enough to ignore the injury. It’s when he’d settle that the pain would increase; a dull pulsing ache that spread through him with every beat of the heart.  

Winston slept on the back seat. His appearance outside the house was a pleasant blessing. Will had little qualms about bringing him along nor did he wonder much how he got away from his caretakers. Shaky hands fumbled with the screwdriver while he gave it more though. And the more he did the more it felt like half a blessing and half a curse. Winston would be useful, would be a friend, would be much needed company but also he would be a weakness. Will had good perception about what was coming and the possible cruelty of it.

But before any of that, before he’d leave Baltimore for good, there was one last piece of unfinished business left. Several lights were still on in scattered hotel rooms, including the one he planned on visiting. The police uniform made him a ghost in the lobby; no one question anything he gave them. He knocked on the door of room 312 and pulled the hat down to further obscure his face.

“Are you here about the files?” he heard her voice before she even opened the door. “’Cause I asked for that a good six hours ago, you could—”

Will barged in before she has time to react. His hand clamped over her mouth as he pushed her flat against the wall. The door behind them slowly shut with a click.

“You’re done talking, Freddie.”

The taser crackled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon the mistakes. Dyslexia.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2, feat. haunted mind palaces, improper use of alcohol and no one appreciating Winston. Also a special ~~guest~~ star.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expertly edited by [ watcherscouncil](http://archiveofourown.org/users/watcherscouncil/pseuds/watcherscouncil) ❤

His spectre haunted each and every hall built with the bricks of a life left behind in Baltimore. An immaculate representation; a perfection of him that faked its way into his heart and refused to leave. There was truth to this design, Hannibal knew as much but not _how_ much. In essence, he didn’t want to find out. It would only serve to prove how deep the finely crafted hook of lies sunk under his skin.

The less thought Hannibal wished to give him, the more he saw him casually stroll through the dining room, sit in his office chair, occupy his kitchen. Always with his perfectly combed hair, clothes not a size too big and a smile so genuine he could see it in his eyes. A smile that served no other purpose now but to mock him with its honest cruelty. The one and only room the Imago refused to step foot in was the only room its original has never been in. His bedroom was the only place this side of the palace Hannibal could findany solitude in.The emptiness felt like an elaborate mockery. He did not enjoy this feeling, did not enjoy being shamed by his own mind. But it wouldn’t be the first or the last time his mind haunted him with obelisks of remorse and constant reminders of what could have been.It was equal parts unpleasant at the sight of it as any void he may have fallen through when he did not watch his step.

Hannibal found him this time leaning against his desk in the office, the faded cerulean shirt rolled up to his elbows. A strikingly familiar pose. He usually did not interact with the Imago, stayed as far from it as his pride let him. But this time Hannibal found himself on the other side of the table, staring at his back, within arm's reach. Work papers and an open schedule book lied scattered on the desk. A strikingly familiar situation. His hand acted on impulse, on curiosity, as Hannibal reached for him and raked fingers through finely combed curls. It was soft and silken to the touch, a perfection achieved only in the haze of a dream using imagination as its construct.

A far cry from the reality he felt not too long ago.

A soft slow building laughter rolled with a gradual ease out of the Imago. It played on a tone of malice.The sound left little doubt at its meaning, mockery. Hannibal tightened the fistthat was still playing with soft curls, pulling at the supple neck. A hiss slipped out with a laugh but it never ceased in its ridicule. There was a scalpel in Hannibal’s hand and he did not question its manifestation. The grip tightened on the handle as he raised it—

“ _Vostro caffe, signore._ ” A young waitress set down a macchiato with a glass of water. The check she had slipped under the ash tray so the wind could not take it.

“ _Grazie,”_ Hannibal said with a slightly delayed smile and a daze in his eyes. She returned the gesture with a polite bow before hastily turning to serve more tables.

The emptiness on the parchment of paper greeted him with a defeating salute. Only the word _Dear_ was etched on the fine stationery. The fountain pen lulled softly between his fingers waiting to pour out more words but none came. The brief dab of inspiration he tried to find in his mind proved to be all but gone. He abandoned this task, much like the now not so empty palace in his mind, and put away the pen and stationary. Clearly this was not a good moment to finish, or even start a letter. He opted instead to continue where he had left off before, he fired up his device, reading through the tasteless and vaguely informative articles on TattleCrime.com.

+++

The line between the waking self and the dreary sleep had always been muddled for Will. This was a little different; chemically induced. Heavy limbs and shallow breath held him down like restrains while the eyes focused on the mundane and made spectacles of it. If the eyes were open at all, he really couldn’t tell.

There was a ray of sunlight that pushed through thick drapes. On it tiny flecks of dust lulled with crawling speed. _Midday_ , he thought or something thought for him in that heavy skull of his. These two nights of sleep Will had in a shoddy New York motel brought with them an unusually hard waking period. Between each unhurried slide of his eyelids, an old friend greeted him. The raven stag, still bleeding, still wounded. But it was a lot more anxious this time, jittery and agitated. It thrashed, its antlers flinging specks of blood all over the room. It beckoned, it compelled him almost as if screaming at him – _You’re wasting time!_

Will felt one drop land in his eye which made him squeeze it shut until he was seeing stars, until he was certain his actions were waking ones. His arm rested over his head and he noted to himself that he should not mix painkillers and alcohol again. It was terribly dangerous, he knew that, but it did help him sleep. It did nothing but hinder his mornings though.

Winston shifted his head lightly. The dog was sleeping on the bed with him; his head was resting gently against the injury. The comfort of his warm presence did wonders against the ache that bothered Will mostly when he was laying still. He searched blindly with the free hand on the counter for the box of ibuprofens. For all its worth, Winston’s brand of pain relief would not last forever.

+++

Over a dozen times he ended up in the tiny bathroom rubbing soap all over his arms. Maybe once his efforts would have been called desperate but not today. He just wanted to wash the red off. And he knew, deep down he knew all of it was in his head. He knew his hands weren’t soaked, he knew it was illogical. He knew his mind well enough at this point to recognize it was desperately trying to make him feel guilty for something he wasn’t. Will felt guilt, alright. He felt most of it for being alive, for walking, for what nested itself in his chest. But he felt little for what he did or what he would do.

It wasn't just the blood, you see. It was a nasty feeling on his skin and underneath his fingernails. He preferred not to see it slide all over his skin in the shower, or spiral down the drain at his feet. It might confuse him, make him think he tore a stitch.

In truth he was just upset. Upset for the lack of the unsettling feeling he had grew to trust as his moral compass. A lot seeped out of him on that kitchen floor, not just blood.

+++

After the shower and a mandatory redressing of the injury, Will sat down by the phone with a handful of brochures he got the day before.

“Yes, but how do you transport pets?” was Will’s most asked question. He watched Winston lick a can of dog food clean with a sour look. No one was really giving him any satisfactory plans. All too robust and barbaric for his taste. The real question should have been why he even bothered, considering who was out there waiting for him. There was little chance he’d board any plane or ship.

Will peeked through the curtains while he waited for his hair to dry and there it was again, that horribly conspicuous black SUV parked across the street. He had first noticed it in the crack of dawn two days ago. He decided then he had to make his break out of Baltimore. He didn’t give it much thought back then but it kept gnawing at him as he drove towards the Big Apple. He knew with a certain kind of clarity that it was tailing him, and today would be no different.

“Free ride,” Will said to Winston with a chuckle. A petty comfort. The dog tilted his head with a curious tail waggle. It still worried him a little, Winston’s presence in all of this, but Will believed he had it covered. There wasn’t much to do in this room beyond nibble on take out or sleep, so Will spent most of his time thinking. Something he had become very good at.

The bag over Will’s shoulder was an uncomfortable weight, but nothing he couldn’t deal with. The sky was darkening when he finally made his mind up and stepped outside, all necessities packed and Winston trailing behind him. He tapped his rustic old car as he crossed the street, doubting he’d ever see or drive an ugly perfection like that one again.

Will knocked on the glass of the SUV. It rolled down half way to reveal two unpleasant looking men, gruff and menacing in their appearance yet dressed sharply in dark two-piece suits. _Bruisers_ , Will thought. Not much brain here, only goons that followed orders. He expected nothing less.

“Can I help you, sir?” The one closest to Will said, trying his best to look nonchalant and not like someone caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Take me to your boss. The two of us clearly need to talk.”

Will held his eye contact, used the sternest voice at his disposal. The two goons exchanged looks. The other went for his phone and exited the vehicle. The conversation was held only a few feet away but he couldn’t make out any of the words. The other guy, the one he had talked to was still in the car and staring him over. It wouldn’t have taken much effort to overpower Will, injured as he was. Christ, the only thing this guy had to do was open the door with sudden force and Will would be on his back and in pain within a moment.

“Yeah, he’ll see you,” the other guy said as he circled the car and opened the back door for him. Will’s nerves settled from their taut pull when he realised the violent approach was slowly becoming obsolete. For now.

He threw his bag inside and took a seat but when Winston tried to follow the other guy grabbed him by the collar and tugged him away from the vehicle. Winston gave out a whine and a soft bark but he didn’t react with a fight.

“Hey!” Will exclaimed loudly from inside the vehicle. “He comes with me or you might as well shoot me right now because I won’t be saying a god damn word to anyone.”

His sneaking suspicion that their boss wanted him very much alive and talking got confirmed with a snarl and a warning not to muck the seats. The thug pulled the collar towards the car with little regard to the animal’s whine and slammed the door shut, barely missing Winston’s tail. The dog took immediate comfort on the seat next to Will and his owner did little to scurry him off of it.

+++

To a layman’s eyes it might as well have been a small cruise ship, but in truth it was a yacht. A rather large and luxurious one, slick and modern with dark tinted glass covering the bridge. Will didn’t catch a name before they hauled him in and brought him to one of the lounge rooms, the space of which would put his entire house to shame. Less said about the richness the better.

He took a seat on creamy U shaped sofa and waited. Winston was not allowed on it; it was probably real leather and he was at this moment trying to impress. The two ruffians that had brought him in stood nearby, guns with silencers in hand and stern faces. Their posture was statuesque. The guy that was paying for all of this took his time showing up.

The awkward silence was broken by a mechanical sound of wheels turning.

“You certainly know how to spend your money,” Will's voice rasped after that lengthy silence. He watched the crystal chandelier hanging over the room. It probably cost more than his car back when it was new.

“Oh boy do I!” The voice was chipper but muffled, like it came from behind a mask. “Have my boys treated you well?”

Will rolled his shoulders in a shrug. The motorized wheelchair that came into view matched both the owner and his yacht in its class; white and expensive, just like the pinstripe suit Mason Verger was in. Metal holders held him in a fine and straight position. His eyes and fingers were the only parts of his body that showed any movement. He manoeuvred a thin joystick to position him in front of Will.Will noticed that there were no handles for pushing on his wheelchair.

“So then, Mr. Graham, what can I do you for? My boys tell me you think we have some business that needs tending.” No smile greeted him, only an intense glare of bright eyes. Everything beyond the nose was shrouded with a plastic mockery of a human face. A mask. Will remembered very well what had happened to the original. He knew that no one should be exposed to _that_ sight.

“You want to catch Dr. Lecter, I want to avoid jail.” Will glanced over at the men with the guns, “Or the morgue.”

“A little peeved he left you there bleeding, huh?”

“I tend to take stabbing personally.”

Mason let out a ghoulish laugh behind the mask. “Oh that’s rich! But, pray tell Mr. Graham, what exactly makes you think you’re needed here?”

Will sank into the comfort of the sofa feeling his nerves screech with concern that his face didn’t show. Mason loved games, and that was all this was. It was just that his one obtusely long conversation that he had held with this man was enough to last him a lifetime. Will felt that Mason's company and presence were atrocious.

“Without me the only thing you’ll be serving Dr. Lecter is a stream of fit and supple dishes,” Will gestured with a hand over his hired men. “Besides, I’d have been dead already if I wasn’t your...” he mulled the words over before saying “backup plan?”

“Get this man a drink!” Mason was joyous in his exclamation. “And fix him up a lovely room.”

A few staff members came in; one to man the bar and the others to take Will’s bag. Winston was considered a part of the luggage as he got dragged off too, contrary to Will’s protest. The gun barrels did little to silence him but a punch to the ribs did, all that and much more. Will sank down on the couch, teeth sunk into his own tongue with hope of holding back the pained groan. Mason left his static position and rolled over to the bar where one of the staff served him scotch through an awkward little tube that squirmed under his mask to serve as a straw.

“Do you know where we’re going? Got a guess?” Mason asked.

“Uhh...” Will gripped the scotch he was served, downing it almost instantly before something a lot more pathetic came out of him. He did give the question thought, before when he was confined to a bed in a white room that smelled of anaesthetics.  “France? Italy maybe...”

“Bingo!” Mason exclaimed with another laugh. “He left very quickly, but not without anyone noticing. Money, Mr. Graham, it can buy you the wondrous of things. Information being the best of them.”

“D-do you have men there?”

“Of course!” Mason came closer again after finishing his drink. “They’ve sniffed him out, practically cornered him. Like a rat in a maze.”

Will couldn’t help his chuckle; this was too good. “The element of surprise is the only thing you’ve got going for yourself. Don’t waste it.”

“Considering how much I pay them, I expect perfect scores and gold stars for everybody.” Another staff member entered and whispered something to Mason. After he gave an affirming grunt, the two bruisers broke their statuesque form and went to Will. “You’re plan B, Mr. Graham. If they fail, you live. Shouldn’t you be hoping for that?”

The men didn’t even wait for Will to get up. They grabbed him by his arms and proceeded with the unkind relocation.

“I’m not hoping for that, Mason,” Will said before they got him through the door. “I’m expecting it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone was surprised by Mason’s appearance, you’re lying to yourself. But thanks for indulging me!
> 
> Reader: Btw what happened to Freddie?  
> Author: Excellent question. *joins you in contemplation*


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3, feat. a lovely cruise, nasty nightmares across the board, Mason being a dick, Winston having a bad time and a merry cannibal enjoying a people snack. Land ho!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More lovely editing by [watcherscouncil](http://archiveofourown.org/users/watcherscouncil/pseuds/watcherscouncil)!

Dreams were dangerous. They had a tendency to run amok. They didn’t listen. They couldn’t be controlled. The slightest ripple in them could turn the sweetest of visions into a harrowing nightmare. This was one such ripple, not the first or the last. An unseen hole in the floor of the mind far too easy to slip through.

There were dead girls there, always the two of them. One a small child, an old memory. The other a fresh new addition of auburn hair with a look of lost hope and missed chances. She was no small child. The both of them would haunt the corners of his eyes. Never in reach. Always they came with an unpleasant aftertaste in the back of his throat.

The real treat of terror was something a bit more fresh on the mind. Not an old wound; a new one this time. Always in the kitchen, always the same. And always it came with its own particular brand of unease.

Dreams defied logic. They turned the little knife into something bigger, something deadlier. His hand would rend too far, too quick, too deep or too sudden and that would be enough to fool the feeble web of reason, if there was one. His wail of pain was a broken record by now; a requiem of death and dying. A sweet, sad sound. Light would leave his eyes so quickly and there would be no time to exchange even the shortest of words or a remorseful glance. All that would be left was a dead weight in his arms and it stung, not his eyes but his heart. It bled and it wept and he heard words leave him that he would never say with such an honest tremor.

Sometimes there would be sirens. Sometimes he would leave and sometimes he would not. The worst of it was waking up with cold sweat and a heaving breath. Composure would come but not instantly. In the darkness, in those moments between lucidity and the ebb of dreams where reason seeped in – in those moments real fear resided.

Was it a dream? Was it real? Did he truly end him? The mind could work wonders in the span of seconds before actual memories would prevail. They brought with themselves an uncontrollable fear. Then a comforting awareness – Will Graham was alive.

Hannibal did not enjoy knowing the extent of the attachment that failed to die down between them. Loneliness was a common aspect in his life, a well known friend to him, but this time aroundit proved itself to be unsavoury and deplorable. There were so many words to be said but the stationeries refused to fill themselves with ink. TattleCrime.com rested awfully quiet. Only the rummaging of pigs brought him some fresh amusement.

+++

The room Will got was not something ostensibly prepared the moment he arrived. Oh no, this was a room that waited for him and him specifically for a few days now. It lacked the luxurious touch the yacht had like the soft plush carpets and the vintage wallpaper. The room he got was bare.

There was a cot to sleep on and not much else in it. The light worked at least. The small round window that offered a view to the outside was covered in black paint, obscuring everything, even the sun. A functional bathroom was present but no mirrors or a door to close. The water that ranfrom the faucetcould reach warm temperatures, which was the biggest surprise. Probably too much work to unhook the plumbing for just one special guest.

His bag was there, neatlyplaced on the cot. Clean linen sheets too. On top of them was his taser, but the gun was missing from the bag. Clearly they didn’t need a reason to punish him physically but perhaps it was more amusing to the patron if such a clear temptation would provoke him so that they could. Will had no intentions of using it. The last thing he wanted was to offer Mason amusement, and he especially didn't want to have to endure anymore pain.

The worst of the room was not the accommodation, the fact that he was watched by two cameras or the peculiar loudspeaker perched above the door. The worst was Winston's private accommodation. The dog was stuck in a cage, spacious enough to let him move in, at least a little, but not much. He could circle around just enough to stretch his legs but beyond that, he was stuck. The cage was made of sturdy bars and chains, all encased in wood. A little square window on the side of the rectangle cage was the only source of light for Winston, and the lock itself was nothing Will could break without at least a crowbar. It didn't surprise Will, the way Winston was treated. Worse things could have happened considering whose digestive tract Mason’s face went through. But Winston wasn’t even guilty of that. It hurt to watch him, caged as he was. The way he whined and tried to stick his head out through the bars on the square window but only his snout would fit.

Will decided against unpacking to check the rest of his possessions, instead he opted for rest. He sat down next to the cage and pulled up the sleeves of his plaid shirt. Without much effort his hand slipped through the bars to meet with Winston’s head. The whining died down for a bit as Willpetted him and cooed with reassuring words. In some way, perhaps it was better he was stuck in a box then outside. No one could hurt him in it. It was small comfort but Will took it.

+++

The touch of rust and smell of grime didn’t follow him here, regardless of the closed space. It stayed on fleeting American shores. Here he had too much confidence in someone else’s _work_ to be left locked in this small cabin forever. That didn’t make the stay a pleasant experience.

The very first night he found out what the speaker was for. He pushed the cot closer to the cage and for all its simplicity, it made for a fine resting place. Or it would have had if it had not been for the voice that would keep him up all night.

"Y'know I'm actually on my way to France, y'see. I'm going for some professional therapy. And maybe even some surgery, hmm? Yeah, there are some doctors there that'd love to have a look at me, see what they can cook up. Oh Margot, you should have seen her face when I said I'd be leaving for a while. Sweet, sweet sister, there was so much joy in her eyes it almost hurt to leave. I bet she misses me though. She really enjoyed taking care of me, sister dearest. I do believe we ironed our little differences out, hahah. Yes, I'm quite sure she's over that entire silly-silly baby ordeal. I hope she has fun leading the estate back in America. She could use some experience in it. Oh but how rude of me, perhaps I should have asked if you were feeling up for a chat before I started talking. I hope you don't mind the hour, Mr. Graham, I'm just feeling very chatty this evening. Oh but you don't even know what the time is, do you?"

It was 3 AM, according to Mason. There were no clocks in the room to tell if he was lying or not. There were no pillows on the cot that he could use to cover his head and muffle the sound even for a tiny bit. Winston wasn’t enjoying it either. The speaker was set to an obnoxiously loud level and the voice on the other side had an endless supply of shit to spew.

Some good two hours later, give or take, Will really couldn't tell, Mason stopped monologuing about details of his life no one should hear. It was then, in the blessed silence that Will found comfort in the faint sound of the ocean water hitting against the hull of the yacht. It was a soothing sound and onethat he found he could driftoff to sleep by. But the more his sense got attuned to the silence, the more he noticed the underlying sound, the one the waves of the sea were desperately trying to muffle but couldn’t. The grunting and squealing grew louder and louder with each moment Will became more and more aware of it. Deep in the hull of the ship, a pack of pigs were screaming throughout the night and Will could even hear the screams of something a little more human. 

+++

The morning, although Will couldn’t tell either way, came with some cans of food waiting for him at the door. So they did care enough to not have Will starve, but poor Winston didn't get anything. He shared his food with the dog, spending most of the day in a sitting or laying position next to his cage. He missed the way the dog’s warm presence would ward away the pain. The painkillers were starting to wane in their frequency of use.

"Are you sure you want to be sharing your food with the mutt, Mr. Graham? What if that's all you're getting for the day, huh? You need to think this through, wouldn't you agree?"

The loudspeaker would flare up with Mason's voice every once in a while. Sometimes he'd just come on to talk gibberish, other times he'd actually share something useful like how many miles were crossed and what time of the day it was. The little window painted black let nothingin for him to know night from day.Will found that he had started to lose track.

During the evenings Mason’s voice worked hard to bother him with gruesome details. He spoke with morbid precision of all the different ways Mason had thought of killing Will. Most of the stories involved the pigs. The worst were the ones where he spoke of Winston and all the ways he’d make Will watch Winston die. Skinning came up often.

There were some stories Mason shared that gave Will chuckles. The ones involving the esteemed Dr. Lecter. He was so proud of what his money sniffed out, of the fact that he was in the know and he had more pay-driven Italians running about like bloodhounds.The last batch had done so well, that clearly this one was set to succeed as well. Will would have laughed more vigorously but it was hurting his stomach.

Day after day Mason shared more tidbits. His constant voice over obstructed Will’s thinking, made him jittery and sleepless. Mason's pets deep down in the hull made sure to kill the remaining amount of time Will had to rest before the cycle continued. He was to the point where he was glad that his dreams he had were not a fun experience, but anxiety sparked with fatigue. There was always more blood on his arms whenever he woke from the fragilesleep, and no soap in the bathroom to scrub it off with. Sitting under a lukewarm shower was where he spent most of his time other than sitting next to Winston’s prison. He’d change his bandages with squinting eyes. The itching throb the wound was giving out assured him he’d live a lot better in ignorance of its state.

+++

The man pleaded in broken English as he dragged himself across the carpet. It was really a poor thing to have to listen to. It was barely understandable with those few teeth he had missing. The begging only made it that much worse. It gave the man an uncouth slur. Hannibal wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He looked at his hand and saw that there was blood. The gentleman had gotten a lucky shot in. What Hannibal gave him in return was a quick kick to the head. Hannibal took a moment to dig his handkerchief out of his pocket. He wiped his nose, cleaning it of any remnants of blood. It was not a wound that he would worry about.What he felt wasmore of an inconvenience because such a poor hunter caught him off guard. He had been expecting something like this to happen to him, before the FBI even showed an interest in finding him. What he didn't expect was such a hasty execution of revenge. Hannibal wondered how much the guy crawling across the bedroom floor was getting paid, or if he even knew who he was sent after.

" _Ascolta_ ," Hannibal slipped into flawless Italian to reassure the man.His intent was to calm him and set the man in a mood that would allow Hannibal to get some answers. The guy pulled his back up and against the foot of the bed and listened with a shivering breath. Hannibal came closer, with measured and slow steps that would inspire no danger.

"I'm certain you'd rather keep your life than die here, yes?"

The Italian gave a frantic nod. He licked his lips that were painted red from all the blood that seeped from his damaged gums. The voice he responded with gave away too much of his panic. "W-what do you want from me?"

"I just want to know where he is," Hannibal crouched down beside him and offered a smile. "The man who’s paying you," he clarified, "That’s all I want."

The Italian was eager to please having been fed false sincerity of a humane smile.  He told him of the Verger ship that wasn't due in the harbour for another three days. He also offered with no incentive the number and names of the other men that were hunting him. The revelation was a bit disappointing; there were only six more of them. When he questioned the man further he shared the exact sum that was placed on Hannibal’s head. It was an admirable price, but Hannibal found it in poor taste to offer so little when Mason could afford to offer so much more.

"You’ve proven yourself very helpful," Hannibal smiled and stood up, offering his hand to the man.

The Italian took his hand and immediately found himself strung up by strong hands. "Your leg isn’t doing all that well, is it?" Hannibal asked remembering the loud crunch that gave way under the sole of his lacquered shoes. The man was eager to squirm out of his grip and leave but that wasn't quite what Hannibal had in mind for him. He let the man go long enough to see that the man could stand on his own. He could. He then took a few wobbly steps, and Hannibal noticed a gleam of hope in his eyes.

It was then that Hannibal grabbed him by his jacket and slammed him into the closest wall. Hannibal's teeth sank with vicious ease through the feeble cartilage of the Italian’s nose. The screams were only Hannibal’s to hear in such a remote location. He spat the flesh across the floor and threw the shambling mess of a man with it.

“Poor choice of employment, I’m afraid.” Hannibal still spoke to him in a language the man would understand. He situated himself on the man’s chest and pressed his thumbs into the man's tightly squeezed eyes. The man scratched and fought and yelled and begged but it served him little. “I can’t look past that, and neither should you.”

The clear vitreous fluid mixed with blood all over his fingers as thumbs sank further into the hollows of the Italian’s eyes.

+++

The fifth, maybe sixth but also possibly seventh day was an oddly quiet one. No cans of beans were waiting for him by the door and Will was glad to starve for a day. If he had to have another day of bean's he’d probably break the tiny obscured window with the can.

Will lied on the cot oddly unconcerned with the cameras or the danger or the fact that he was lounging in nothing but a towel. The peace was too comforting to concern him with anything other than getting some rest. No speakers blaring, no pigs growling in the hull; only the sweet mellow sound of seagulls and the ocean to lull him to sleep. Where he ended up was not a dream but a familiar place, one he hadn't visited in a long while.

The trees were still golden, leaves slowly swaying on the autumn breeze. A lovely day, not too bright but vividly illuminating. The murmur of the river was the friendliest voice in his ears, much like the ocean. The incitement to relax was overwhelming. He had stayed out of this place for... for fearof something. That fear was for a good reason. When he tried to cast the rod, the first scratch of panic knocked. He found it missing from his hands. He found himself missing a lot of things. No vest, no hat, the rubber fishing pants were also unaccounted for. A drab bloodstained shirt was all he had on, and the water, oh the water was so cold. He was knee deep in it and the current was oddly violent, more so than usual. The leaves rustled in a cacophony of sound as the wind took up speed and strength. Will tried to move his legs, to get out of the water that felt odd and unfriendly the more he became aware of all the details that were amiss. Like the current. It was reversed, it was flowing towards him instead of away from him. He checked the surroundings to see if it was him. That maybe he had changed direction, and not the current. But it wasn't so. It was his usual spot where he liked to fish. This was the place where he usually found respite, and his tranquillity would flourish.

There was none of that here now.

His legs refused to move. Not by his own volition but by the river's. It held him in place like there were anchors or rocks tied to his feet. He knew that sinking was almost inevitable and inescapable. The river bed was parting below him, eating him up. The current grew stronger, the day shifted to night in a heartbeat.

Drowning was a terrible way to die. He knew too much about all the ways a man could die and drowning definitely took the top spot in his book.Something about having your lungs filled with voluminous liquid until it choked you, until they burst. Something about the way the reflex that would serve to keep one alive in normal circumstances, keep them breathing, would now deliver them excruciating death.

There was no point to scream or yell for help, not even when he felt hands under the stream that grabbed and clawed at his limbs. No one would hear. No one alive was here but him. When the water covered his head and pulled him under he hoped that he might wake up from, what was for once, and actual nightmare. Instead, bony fingers pried open his eyes. Hollow, sunken faces of distant familiarity greeted him in all their menace and anger. Words and fright worked faster than reason but the apologies drowned in the water.

And so did he.

The sheets were covered in sweat or maybe it was the water followed him from his nightmare. Then he remembered that he had showered. He also found that his eyes failed to function properly regardless of his lucidity. Will’s limbs were not heavy and weighted but instead entirely unwilling to move. The dark paralysis his dream had left him in made Will grasp for straws of reason in the quiet. Only his breath was audible.

And then it hit him, cogs turning, thinking, and finally just as the sleep paralysis started to wane, he realized what was wrong. The pigs were rarely ever this quiet. The sea was rarely ever this calm. He heard seagulls. He still was.

Whatever was their destination, they had reached it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three chapters in and the two protagonists have yet to even meet. M-maybe next time :D...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4, feat. a letter, a phone call and chum for sharks. Winston is still having a bad time. Also who the fuck is Gianni and why should I care?

_Dear Mason,_

_My complement on the bounty you set on my head. It’s quite high. Yet, for a man of your wealth mere millions feel very small. I’m both flattered and offended honestly. Offended mostly for whom you send after me. Did you even tell these men what they were getting into? I felt a defining lack of quality in the one I stumbled on. Oh my dear Mason, I do believe you’ve rushed yourself a little, thrown pearls to pigs as they say._

_Fitting, no?_

_I look forward to further entertainment from your henchmen. This one proved to be of lacklustre taste but I’m sure you’ve got more lined up for me. I hope you enjoy what I left of him. Also, my thanks to you and your men for cleaning the mess up. I’m certain you’d hate for the nosy Carabinieri to make our games more difficult._

_We shall see each other very soon, face to face. Or what’s left of yours._

_Sincerely,  
Hannibal Lecter, MD._

+++

Gianni folded the letter into his pocket and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. His vision blurred and that was the only way he could make himself look at the leftovers. _What was his name_ , he though. _Something with a P... Paolo maybe_. It didn’t matter much; he wasn’t going to need it anymore. The content of the letter was written in English and Gianni was the only one who could read it. It didn’t tell him anything more than what he figured out for himself as soon as he saw the body.

The Verger boy lacked trustworthiness in his speech. He could have lied about a whole lot of thing, like the fact that Dr. Hannibal Lecter was merely a practitioner of psychology that did their family wrong. It was a little suspicious, offering a seven digit sum for someone not even noteworthy. Perhaps they, no, _he_ was a bit in over his head. The rest of them took it a lot less distressing then what it looked like. Blinded by cash. But then again so was Gianni. Downplaying this wasn’t a bad idea all things considered. Another guy or two killed would considerably up the shares they would be getting.

“ _Che pazzo,_ ” Bruno muttered next to him as he snapped another Polaroid picture of the scene. “We’re dealing with a maniac.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, this was just—”

“Just what!?” Bruno snapped and gestured at the body missing a nose. The skin of his face was peeled with surgical precision and nowhere to be found. His eyes a mush in the sockets. “Look at this shit, Gianni!”

“I’m looking, and you know what I see? I see a _cazzo_ who forgot how to use a gun,” Gianni scoffed and turned away from the gruesome scene. “So the doctor knows kung fu. Big deal. I’d like to see him stop bullets.”

Bruno chuckled as another flash went off.

“What are you doing anyway, taking pictures?”

Bruno just pointed with his thumb over his back at the guy who was finishing a phone call.

“We need to clean this shit up. Mason doesn’t want authorities catching wind of this. He also wants pictures of the scene for some God damn reason,” Alesso grimaced as he looked over Bruno’s shoulder. “ _Porco dio..._ ”

Gianni let slip a nervous laugh as he remembered a line in the letter thanking them for their work. It was a good thing he carried shovels in the trunk of his car. One never knew what sort of curve balls life could throw you. Sometimes you just had to dig graves in back yards.

+++

They got escorted into the lounge room of the yacht and the first person they noticed was the recognizably obnoxious source of sound wheeling around on expensive equipment. Their boss looked a lot more paralyzed then what they imagined him, yet he seemed the liveliest thing in the room.

“I’d offer you a drink but quite frankly, I’m a little upset with your handy work,” Mason said as he stopped by the bar where a bartender was fixing him a martini. Something resembling paper got dropped inside the drink.

Beyond a few grim looking guards, the other odd and very unfitting sight in the room was a scruff looking man slouching on one of the sofas with a coffee table at its feet. He looked incredibly at odds with the refined decor and elegance of the staff in his red washed out button-up and shoes that walked through dirt one too many times. Damp curls framed the face of a good looking man had he not had such dark circles under his eyes. Once again, Gianni got the feeling there was a lot they weren’t told.

The pictures they took went to the misplaced man. The letter went to Mason. The laugh their benefactor gave after reading it was pent up and forced.

“Funny guy, funny guy this Lecter!” Mason snorted. “I feel like we could have had some great times together. Has he always had a penchant for jokes?”

“Once you get to know him...” Will answered absentmindedly. He was too busy going through the Polaroids. His usually sedulous attention to detail got obstructed by a distinct lack of quality. He exhaled laboriously after a short moment and sat back, flicking the few key images across the table where Mason had parked himself. “Not sure what you want me to tell you about this. Just have a look, it’s pretty obvious. The photos are shit, though.” Will threw a glance at the Italians and gave them a shrug, “No offence.” His smile was sardonic.

One of the staff members showed Mason the photos.

“Mockery, ridicule,” Will pointed out the intent behind the dead man’s face, as if it wasn’t obvious enough. “A little sloppy though, lacks the usual grace and showmanship. I guess the guy actually caught him off guard. Did the letter point to any ire about your haste?”

Mason grumbled an affirmation. Will looked over the photo of the nose once more, squinting at the poor quality of the angle. The edges of the ripped flesh looked unevenly shredded, torn even.

“He bit it off,” Will was taken aback by the possibility. “And by the bloat of the body, uhh... Did the room reek?”

The question was directed at the Italians, all of whom looked at Gianni to answer. “A bit, but not unbearable.”

“Three or four days dead, I’d say. Hard to be exact.”

“Four days ago was when we last heard of him,” Gianni added.

Will slid back into the sofa raking damp hair of his face. He continued talking to Mason, or whoever was listening, while his eyes still skimmed the photos. “Assuming the guy squealed, which he probably did, Lecter knows _who, when, how many_ and any other detail you shared with them. You lost your surprise, he’s in the know... I’d classify that as _very bad_.” Will looked back at the Italians and said “He called you, didn’t he? That’s how you found your friend?” The one who spoke English nodded and Will returned a tight-lipped smile. “Cleaning service; he wouldn’t have called otherwise. The police would complicate things for everyone.”

“Pardon my math, it’s been a while since schooling days,” Mason said briskly with little consideration of Will’s worrying words, “but weren’t there seven of you I was paying?” he asked the Italians. “Six now, considering one got himself killed. Yet there’re only five of you here.”

Gianni looked over his team before supplying an answer. “Guido, we saw him yesterday, he’s just terrible at appoint—”

“He’s dead,” the tired American deadpanned. “You’ll get a call soon, don’t worry.”

It didn’t take long for one of their old fashion cell phones to start ringing. Ten or more strenuous minutes of Mason grumbling, clearly unconcerned with the possibility that his fort of money may not be all that effective or safe as he had assumed. One of the Italians answered their phone and his face fell into stern silence almost immediately. He fiddled with some settings on it before he set it down on a table and gave Mason an affirming nod.

“Enjoying Elba, Dr. Lecter?” Mason jumped at the chance to talk first. “The weather is lovely but I hear this isn’t the best vacation time.”

“Rainy season I’m afraid. The calm is only temporary,” the smile in Dr. Lecter’s disembodied voice sounded throughout the room with a clear backdrop of digital fuzz. “You have a lovely yacht. The lights make it look spectacular under the evening sky,” he spoke of things that signified he was close, or close enough to see the yacht at least. There was no mistaking it – he wasn’t in that room but for Will Graham he might as well have been.

Will felt himself fold inwards, heart picking up the pace for reasons he couldn’t discern. His thoughts ground to a halt. It hadn’t been that long, but hearing his voice outside of misty dreams made Will realise how little he knew what he himself wanted out of all of this. _Run. Survive._ Sure, but then what? The first sound of that familiar accent and modulated speech had Will feeling cold sweat rise from his skin. No one was watching him yet he felt a million eyes on him as the muscles in the back of his neck tensed.

“I would love to see it on the inside.”

The pull was inescapable. Deep down, below the surface echoes of his thoughts he knew exactly where _running_ would lead him. There was nothing but fine Scotch in his stomach and it would be a pity for it to leave him, but Will’s insides seemed like they might want to empty. He felt his lips open and tremble in a need to speak, yell, talk back to the voice that was miles,yards, feet away. Nothing came out of him though, no strangled sounds or angered quips. He couldn’t wait to see him, didn’t want to see him, would do anything to rip the calm out of his tone, would do everything to run himself against the sharp blade _proper—_

“Ohoho, we can arrange that! Come aboard, the gate’s open. I’d love to make a guest of you,” Mason replied to the taunts with growling content, loud enough to shake Will’s thoughts from their dangerous foray.

“Maybe later, under more favourable circumstances.”

“Shame, shame. I’d love for you to see it and to see what I got for you here.”

Will’s nails were digging painful crescents into his palms. Better that then ripping the leather of the sofa he was on. He found himself sitting on its edge, unsure of how it happened since he was slouching just moment ago. He noticed that the same moment he finally felt actual eyes on him. Mason’s. He tried to relax but couldn’t, too late for that. Will clenched his jaw shut and it felt unnatural on his face. Everything about him felt unnatural. Taut and wound up.

“Brought with me a bloodhound, all the way from homeland! This guy though, you’ll love it, a real biter and he’s got a nose just for you,” Mason felt his words were clever enough to warrant a mocking laugh. “Ironic then, it was you who took a bite out of him.”

“Well, well...” was all the came from the other line in a low silky voice. No one noticed the momentary change but Will. No one noticed because it was only Will's to notice. He felt the timbre through his bones, felt it on his skin and against his lips. The beast that nested in his chest stirred and Will hoped the only thing Mason could read on his face was trepidation and not the Gordian knot of sentiments that threatened to unravel, if not grow another layer.

“Now you’ve made it really interesting. My complements Mason, I’m amused. I also feel compelled to make dear Guido more presentable, now that there’s an actual audience. You’ll excuse me wont you, if send his location a bit later then?”

There was no time for anyone’s answer. As soon as Dr. Lecter said his dues, the line broke.

“Presentable? Does that mean he’s still alive?” Gianni almost looked hopeful in his question but Mason killed it quickly with a guffaw.

“Well, Mr. Bloodhound? Astute opinion?” His eyes settled on Will more firmly.

Will swallowed down the knots in his throat and tried to relax. He didn’t have much of an opinion about anything that just happened. Regardless, he knew exactly what he wanted to do in this situation and that was to beguile. Whether his words were truly lies or not, he couldn’t tell for sure. Not yet.

“Your announcement was a little worrying,” Will’s voice reflected that fact, “but it was a smart move on your part. I burned him, and the fact that he didn’t finish the job burns him even more. Your crusade is a game to him, he doesn’t care about you. Me? He’ll want to finish it. He wouldn’t use guns on me, too impersonal. He’d have to get close and that’s how you lure him out.”

“Chum for the shark, eh? I like it! Bring his dog up here,” Mason said to no one in particular but the staff’s reaction was immediate.

Will wasn’t intending to leave the boat without Winston but this surprised him. He was almost afraid to ask but Mason was quick to elaborate.

“You’ll start looking for your pal right now,” he addressed the Italians, “and the two of them will go with you. If you find Mr. Graham’s behaviour disagreeable or difficult in any manner, punish the dog instead.” The grin behind his mask was audible.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was part of a larger chapter but I had to split it, otherwise I wouldn't have finished yet. As amends for the uneventful chapter, you can expect ch. 5 in approx. 3 day.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5, feat. unkind treatment of a man’s best friend, a murder tableau, heavy handed Judas metaphors, cute flowers and a kiss...sort of.

“Who’s he gonna use it? Against us?” Gianni chuckled pointing at the taser Will had tucked in his belt, very unconcerned for anyone noticing.

“I’m sleep deprived, not delusional. You know exactly who this is for.”

The argument for taking some protection of his own passed as well as it could with Mason and his men when they were on their way out of the yacht.

Will zipped up his jacket. The cool night air was a pleasant touch against his skin after what felt like weeks of being locked in a desolate cabin. The taste of freedom was unfortunately hindered by the men around him that marched through the streets. Three in front, two at the back. Yet it was the touch of antlers stabbing at his back that kept him moving forward.

One of the men had a muzzled Winston in tow on a leash. The dog was agitated at first, having finally been freed from his prison box and then even more so when they didn't let him get near Will. He kept trying to edge out of the hands that had his leash and steer him towards Will but that only got him yelled at. Will shushed him. _It's ok, it's ok_ , he'd said with a soothing whisper and the dog would calm for a while. He'd still throw constant glance backwards every so often to have a look at his master.

"So where are we again?" The narrow cobble stone streets they were passing through already revealed a few names that assured Will they were _somewhere_ in the Mediterranean, but not much else he understood.

"Cavo," said the only Italian that spoke English.

“Mason mentioned something with an E.”

"Elba."

“So which is it then?”

“Cavo is on Elba,” Gianni couldn’t sound less annoyed even if he tried.

“And Elba is what, a province?”

Will wasn’t aiming to pique him. He gave Gianni a puzzled look which made the Italiani shake his head and mutter a disgruntled _Americans_. "A fuckin’ island.” he said dryly. “We’re not on mainland, is that what you want to know? It’s not like it fuckin’ matter, you’re not going anywhere. Mason was clear about bringing you back in one piece. Two arguably, if it gets us the doctor we're chasing after." 

“Chasing. Right," Will couldn’t help the gratingly chipper sound of his voice. “You have a better plan then walking straight into a trap then? That’s what this is, you know.”

“Bruno,” Gianni only had to nudge the guy who held Winston’s leash. Will didn’t even get a chance to regret his words before the dog’s leash got yanked and Bruno delivered a swift kick to Winston’s side. The dog whined for a single moment before baring his teeth with a low growl.

“No, Winston, n—” Will made a bee-line for him, teeth clenched and knuckles white, but Gianni stepped right into his path. He pushed Will back with both hands. Winston tried to pull away from the man’s grasp but his leash only got yanked and jerked around which made the dog’s growl all the more louder. The two men behind Will stopped his awkward tumble after getting shoved. They grabbed Will by the arms as Gianni pushed himself into Will’s face.

“Listen here, _Americano_ ,” Gianni jabbed a finger in Will’s shoulder, inches away from the old gunshot scar. “I’m not getting paid to tolerate your shit. So you best keep that mouth shut until I ask for it to speak, hmm?”

Winston looked like he might jump on someone any second and the guy that held his leash had a hand on his gun holster. Will ignored the man jamming himself into his face and tilted his head to the side. “Shh, shh, it’s fine, everything’s fine” he reassured Winston with a smile, signalling with his hand for the dog to calm down.

“Clear?!” Gianni didn’t favour being ignored so he pushed himself further into Will’s face until he had to bend backwards to avoid collision. Will said nothing and gave him a tight lipped smile as he pulled a zipping motion with his fingers over his lips.

+++

They walked towards the general direction of the last place Guido was heard from. Half way there they got the message they were waiting for, sending them all across town to another remote location on the outskirts. The walking fatigued Will but he managed, having popped two painkillers before leaving for good measure. They didn’t help his weary mind that teased the corners of his sight with rustling feathers and the clattering of hooves.

"Is there a particular reason we're not using cars for transport?" Will asked but got no answer. He decided not to push it this time. Back on the yacht, the men had a short but irking conversation with Mason he wasn’t privy to. Will assumed it was Mason’s orders meant to further inconvenience him, but it equally irritated the Italians.

The men seemed edgier, grabbing at their gun holsters the closer they were getting to their destination. Their heads kept turning towards every distant noise and creaking window. Will didn’t enjoy seeing Winston’s tail drag. He stared at his dog through most of their walk, hoping he wouldn’t act out again. The only aggravating thing the dog couldn’t help himself with was walking as further away from Bruno as possible. That earned him several strong yanks, but Will's voice was always there to stop him from getting really hurt.

A biting chill that kept rustling the trees. The Italians murmured among themselves; nothing Will could catch or understand. The road they were on turned from cobble to dirt and the buildings around them grew fewer, quieter and lightless. Even the street lamps were becoming sparse. The end of the dusty road they were on led them to a stone wall with an archway. A loose iron gate hung unlatched.

Gianni checked his phone before declaring "We're here."

The Italians didn't stop to think for a second before they marched towards the gate, guns now in their hands. 

"Woah, woah," Will stopped which got him nudged hard by the men passing him by. "You're just going to barge in like that without a care in the world? How about having a look around?"

Gianni said something in Italian which elected a low rumbling laugh from the men. "I don’t recall asking you anything, Mr. Graham."

"You’re being careless," Will said calmly.

“We have guns, _Americano_. There’re five of us here. What are you, worried?” Gianni snapped briskly. Bruno twisted the leash he held around his arm until Winston was forced on his hind legs.

“Ok, fine. You know best,” Will raised his hands in a defensive motion, but his actions were offset by the unbearable need to mock seeping through his words. “Clearly you’ve dealt with this man before.”

Gianni caught the sound of it and dragged him out of the group. He pushed Will towards the gate instructing him to open and go inside first. He did it with little hesitation, conscious of what he’d see on the other side.

Nothing new and possibly tamer than usual considering the time constrictions.

Will pushed open the gates. The archway led to a large overgrown courtyard surrounded by an old building barely three storeys tall. It had a decrepit look, walls chipped and peeling to expose red brick underneath. Many windows hung open or broken with not a single light among them. There were plenty of places to hide and observe which Will had no doubt Hannibal was doing right that very moment.

The body was easy to notice from where he stood, with the moon as bright as it was and the large Adler tree being its centre stage.

“Found your friend,” Will said without even stepping through the gate. He felt the barrel of a gun jab him in his lower back and, before he continued, he looked back at Winston who had been allowed back on all four. He was whining now, and no smile Will offered him looked like it would set him in a better mood.

Will stepped through the gates, urged by a shove. His pace wasn’t rushed. He allowed the scene to tell its story of betrayal with each measured step. The jabbing at his back was a gun, he knew that, but as the moonlit design flourished in his vision, he felt antlers again digging into his skin. They pushed him towards a very honest display meant just for him.

The man had thick loops of manila rope coiling around his neck. He hung inches off the ground from the lowest branch. A deep incision ran through his abdomen, from hip to hip, and from it his intestines spilled, coiling in heaps and loops at his feet. A fleshy tube of the small bowel still clung to his insides, connecting the viscera on the ground. The real face of the hanged man was hidden beneath finely cut skin that belonged to someone else – the first of the Italians Dr. Lecter got his hands on. Strangely enough, the scene was fairly void of blood, bar what pooled with the intestines at the unfortunate man’s feet.

Behind him, Will heard several sharp exclamations which he had assumed were curses. He started to doubt the _lie_ he told Mason with each encroaching step, and with it his safety. This was far too personal. He did not observe it as a crime scene, but more an expression. Gift wrapped sentiments, half of which told a dangerously tale of contempt. Anger. Betrayal. Lies. Will couldn’t help the tiny feeling of satisfaction that bloomed inside him.

It’s only when he got a foot away from the corpse that he noticed a fine detail that escaped him from the distance and the dark. Small flowers, pale blue and abundant, were peppered over his innards. The hollow of his stomach hosted full bundles of them protruding through the slice. Will crouched with a groan next to the pile of viscera, entirely unaffected by the sight or smell, to pick one out. On closer inspection he recognized the common little thing, its delicate pale colour and the golden eye the petals grew around.

“ _Ne m'oubliez pas,_ ” Will muttered, twisting the delicate stem of the flower between his fingers. The morbidity of the details, the flowers, the stage... He couldn’t help the smirk that tugged the corner of his lips. The intent was as murderous as it was passionate.

A gagging sound snapped whatever illusion he was momentarily under and brought him back to the vaguely threatening reality of thing.

“What kind of whack job do you have to be to do shit like this?” Gianni couldn’t look more appalled at the sight, his eyes stuck on the carved face that was hooked over the real one with a fine stitch job. He nudged Will with his knee to get his attention. “That was a question for you, expert. What the fuck happened to this guy? Did he lose his mind or something?”

Will got up with another pained grunt, looked over the hanged man quizzically and back to Gianni. “Oh you mean the doctor?” Will shrugged. “Does cause and effect have to be the answer to everything? I doubt anything particular happened to him. He just is.” Will gave him a sly look and added, “The answer too daunting for you?”

Will was spared regretting his retort by the sound of a phone ringing; the phone tucked into the breast pocket of the hanged man. Gianni took it out carefully after several rings, squelching his face with disgust in the process. The caller was unknown but it would take no guesswork at all to figure out who it was. Will took a reflexive step backwards when Gianni answered.

“If you would be so kind as to pass the phone to the gentleman on your right. The American whose dog your friend enjoys manhandling.”

Gianni stepped out of the tree’s canopy to have a look around all the windows of the building that surrounded them.

_Too many._

“Would you prefer I describe the way the moonlight reflects off your balding head or for me to shoot off one of your extremities to show how serious I am?”

Gianni whistled towards Will and threw him the phone, which fumbled in Will’s hands. He settled the speaker on his ear and, before he even had a chance to get worried, Hannibal spoke up.

“How well would you fare pretending a different sort of conversation is taking place?”

A cold snap slithered down his spine before he realised the intent of the familiar voice. Gianni and another had their eyes on him while the rest scurried in circles around themselves looking over the windows of the building, afraid to move much from their spots. It took him a moment but he found his voice and the proper words.

“Yes, I’ve seen your work doctor,” Will frowned.

“Splendid,” Hannibal’s voice lacked no confidence. “How are you feeling, Will? Life treating you well I hope?”

 _Scorned_ , he wanted to answer, eyes stuck on the gutted and hanged man. But he couldn’t tell if he would be talking about himself or the man on the other end of the line.

“I’m looking at it right now,” Will answered instead. “Sick, disgusting, the usual,” he grimaced.

“Oh I don’t envy you. I’d hate to be stranded in Mason’s company as well. Not a very courteous fellow, is he?”

“Is this leading somewhere or are you just wasting my time?” Will started casting glances around the building as well.

“That bad? Oh my, I hope it didn’t reflect too poorly on your health. But, back to business. I’m glad you started looking around; it’s exactly what I need you to do. If you’d turn for 180° please.”

“He’ll find you, you know,” Will turned while still stringing together some feasible sentences. “He’s got wealth to spare and then some.”

“Second floor, the balcony with the glass door slightly ajar. Would you mind sending a few of them up there?”

Will saw the exact balcony and there was no one there, but he snapped his head away as if he had seen something. Gianni still had his eyes on him. Will mouthed the word _balcony_ and showed him two fingers while nudging his head in the direction he was looking at.

“There’s only so far you can run, you’re on an island,” Will continued the play. Gianni shook the firearm in his hand expressing worry about who was watching them. “He wants you alive,” Will nodded towards the hanged corpse and covered the microphone of the phone for a moment to whisper, _He doesn’t use guns, never has_.

“Wonderfully done,” Hannibal said pleased after Gianni waved his arms about for a moment and sent two men inside. “One last favour, for the sakes of a proper bluff; continue talking for a bit while I take my leave.” A third man, a lot more hesitant and with a slower pace, took after his allies. “I’ll be seeing you,” the line broke and Will almost forgot his words at the sound of the promise.

“You know exactly what he wants from you for. For god’s sakes, you cut off the man’s face and you destroyed his life—”

The single sound of a gun firing stopped Will from talking. He dropped the phone as if he heard the sound through the speaker. Winston yelped and Bruno tugged at his leash to calm him. The three of them waited, petrified and looking straight at the balcony for signs of life. A long moment passed before someone approached it and stepped out from the room.

“Gianni,” the man yelled out. It was the slowest one that ran in. “I can’t find them, it’s dark as shit in here.” He fiddled with a tiny flashlight in his hands that clearly didn’t do much for him inside. “I don’t think the gun shot came from here.”

Will understood little from his voice but Gianni was furious as he grabbed for his gun and ran inside the building yelling what were likely profanities. Bruno was annoyed to be left with a dog and Will in tow.

“ _Andiamo, andiamo!_ ” he rushed, pushing Will in front and through the creaking wooden door Gianni burst through. The guy really wasn’t expecting at all what was coming. After all, Will was the real target here, was he not? He was safest in their group. He was hurt. The possibility was highly unlikely.

But as soon as they passed into the darkness of the abandoned building, when Gianni was too far up the stairs to notice, Will turned and jammed the active taser in Bruno’s abdomen. The guy tensed, losing all power over his body and voice in a second and fell down. Will, with little remorse for the man he pegged with cruelty, laid his forearm over the guy’s windpipe in an attempt to crush it with all the force and weight he could muster. It wasn’t an easy death, it certainly wasn’t a fast one, but the guy could hardly fight back when most of his muscles were still in spasm from electric shock. Voices and footsteps were heard from above but Will kept weighting him down, paying close attention at his panicked eyes. Too close, as Will glimpsed his own reflection in them. A surreal moment he felt he lived through fifty times over with fifty different victims nagged him to hide backwards, to detach from the situation. He felt the same urge when he paid a visit to a certain journalist not too long ago.

There was no point, though, in hiding. No point in slinking to some makeshift safety of disassociation. He wasn’t afraid anymore of being too much like _him_. That line was breached and crossed a long time ago.

It felt like ten minutes later when the eyes glazed, when the twitching stopped and Will finally noticed the lack of struggling breath on the man beneath him.

Winston had tugged his leash out of the guy’s hand and was nudging Will’s arm. He backed away from the body and got up so quickly his head felt disorientated. There was so much noise upstairs, furious footsteps and yelling. He had to leave, fast. As much as Will wanted to look his dog over first, that wasn’t an option. He did spare a single moment to tear the muzzle off of him.

The Italians were just a floor above and while they were a thing to be afraid of, something else entirely was driving him to get lost. He didn’t want to spend another minute inside that building.

“Come on boy,” Will beckoned his dog and staggered out, as quick as he could, never looking back.

+++

All things considered, the fun he was having with Mason’s games was moderate to low. He really did have the best intention of laying low and silent for a good while, perhaps visiting Florence in a week or so. But, as much as one could remain prepared, life always had its way of ruining even the best of intentions.

Mason wanted to play and Hannibal could do nothing but oblige him, pick his way slowly through the crowd until only the two of them would be left. As if the _boy_ wasn’t disadvantaged enough. But Mason asked for it himself; who was Hannibal to deny him entertainment?

Who came with him, on the other hand, proved to be far more interesting if not a little alarming. The math was simple and Hannibal knew exactly what sort of damage he caused. The resulting calculation told him Will Graham was a week too early out of bed to be gallivanting around mildly exotic Italian locations. Still, the news brought a frightening grin on his face that no one was around to see. Thankfully.

He wanted nothing more but to see what sort of Will followed him all this way. The last time they danced he was dealing with an indecisive creature that played both parts of his role with equal devotion. This one had to have been different. What sort of person would willingly put himself through Mason’s _hospitality_ to get to where he was? One thing was abundantly clear to Hannibal on the basis of Will’s company – he did not come to aid in any manhunt.

So what was he here for, then?

All questions would be answered in due time. The game took some precedence at the moment. Hannibal picked off two men in the dark corridors of a deserted building he had spent time getting to know. The others he left because, where would be the fun in that? And Will?

Hannibal saw what he left on his way out. A charming sight to clue him in about this man, this former FBI special agent that could not, for the love god, do a worse job of hiding his trail. A group of mildly inebriated kids recognised his vague description, key words _American_ and _dog._ They said he’d asked them for some specific directions. The man working in the 24/7 pharmacy pointed out he was probably an abuser of narcotic by the look of him and that he was looking for a place to spend the night. By dawn Hannibal was standing in front of the hostel Will slept in. He did not go in. Hannibal didn’t have the proper equipment with himself and he wanted to give Will another day, give _himself_ another day.

The following day, Will left the safety of his room in the very late afternoon. He paused on the doorstep and looked around, eyes slipping over the fairly inconspicuous man with a hat that read newspapers on a bench a few feet away. Hannibal watched him scurry off with strained steppes over the edge of the weather section in _La Repubblica_. A dark mist of clouds settled over the island that day, promising the unkind weather this season was known for. It also made the day significantly darker.

Hannibal didn’t follow him. As soon as Will was out of sight, he grabbed his suitcase and left the newspaper on the bench. The middle-aged lady on the reception was barely an issue; there was plenty of chloroform and to go around.

A certain _John Smith_ staying alone in a room with two bunk beds sounded suspicious, and it certainly was considering the dog that was also staying in that room. A very cheap place to spend a night in, all things considered. Winston got a treat for his cautiously optimistic behaviour but also got himself locked behind the bathroom door. The dog seemed mildly annoyed considering the constant scratching against the wood.

Hannibal took of his jacket and settled in a chair he positioned in the darkest corner, close to the door. He pushed a small round table next to the chair to prepare some of his equipment for use. And then he waited and waited, and maybe he checked his tablet for some information on that open theatre play that was happening down town, but mostly he waited.

A slow rumble unfolded in the distance and mere moments later he heard the lock turn. The room was entirely awash in darkness with the only source of light coming from the window directly opposing the door. Hannibal halted in a stance on the verge of standing, hands gripping the armrest of the chair. Perhaps Will would notice him; perhaps he wanted him to notice him first.

He looked minced by exhaustion even after a day of rest and very pale. The breath on his parted lips was laborious; chest heaving itself with too much fatigue to be normal. An acrid smell reached his sharp senses and Hannibal knew far too well what careless tale it sang. He was about to truly stand and make himself known when Will’s eyes brushed over him. And he saw him, he truly did, because there was a sigh and he turned his head as if shadows luring in corners were a common thing to fantasize.

Considering what he looked like, Hannibal wouldn’t be surprised if delirium was almost commonplace.

Will turned away towards the nightstand to turn on a lap. The clock next to it read seven thirty. The creak of the floorboards under Hannibal’s shoes made him turn briskly. He appreciated the sight of Will under some normal lighting; he looked slightly less spent.

“Hello, Will.”

Hannibal had his arms visible and empty, pace careful and slow like he was approaching a spooked animal. And maybe he was, given the wide eyed look on Will’s face like he was somehow not expecting this to happen sooner rather than later. His mouth hung open, words suspended on a strangled sound. He looked like he was about to run for his life.

But Hannibal got cocky, got sucked in by the intoxicating look of panic in the other man’s eyes. It was real, of course it was, but the animal he was cornering also had a very real and sharp set of teeth. He had a taste of them, metaphorically speaking, when a step too close got him a swift fist to the temple.

He should have seen it coming. Nothing was ever easy in life. That especially extended to Will Graham.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ne m'oubliez pas](http://symbolism.wikia.com/wiki/Forget-Me-Not)
> 
>  
> 
> Next up - many many reunion kisses...with fists.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6, feat. time being no one’s friend, main characters beating the shit out of each other verbally and physically, drugs and odd requests

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon the long delay, I got infected with the Sudden Yet Inevitable Work™ syndrome.  
>  **A note for anyone who hasn’t read The Hunter** – this chapter invokes some thoughts presented in that fic. Two things you should keep in mind while reading to avoid possible confusion – 1) Will didn’t fake a damn think about his dark side to snare Hannibal, and 2) Hannibal was always aware of the trap but he played along because he believed he could tip Will’s scales in his favour. Needles to say, it went poorly for everyone involved.

Time, this construct of human imagination that frightened even the bravest soul, was an exquisite healer. It could mend wounds, all sorts of wounds of the flesh or of the mind. It could, but time needed _time_ as well and there was simply none of it. No room for its crude stitching to patch the rends and tears they had inflicted upon each other. Would it ever?

Will had even less of it. No room was given to revisit the anomalies coiling inside him; the oddly familiar yet strange new direction his thoughts worked under. Or, perhaps, that in itself was the problem, that lack of acceptance. A willingly turned blind eye to one’s own shift in perspective. How else could the negligence over the life he far too easily took be explained; the way reflections of it simply settled in him like something inconsequential?

 _Selfishness,_ he thought while he bought cigarettes after years of abstinence. _Cruelty,_ for the way the man’s hands treated the last bright spot of his life. _Survival._

Little of that held up when Will was faced with the man he had been inevitably drawn to, the man who pulled apart and exposed him naked and unwilling to the world. The demons chipping away at the walls of his skull were never meant to be seen. But that’s what happened to men who fought monsters; the inevitable end was always their own downfall and rebirth into the same thing they fought against. Maybe because they had it in them all along. Maybe because they were the same god damn thing from the start.

Anger held up and anger Will felt but even it had a questionable aim.

Hannibal looked changed, or so he seemed to Will when he saw him outside of the crisp and clean comfort Hannibal was used to be seen in. Almost a different man entirely, but that was the intent. It only lasted for a glance until light cleared the shadows off his face. The sandy blond of his hair was a darker shade and tussled. Perhaps that was an exaggeration but anything outside the slicked norm he was usually seen with looked tussled on him. His clothes lacked the usual flair, but even the simplest combination of white shirt on black trousers, no tie, failed to look favourably on him. Will took all the details of him he could in the short moment before the eyes leashed his gaze. Or, as it turned out, it was Will who did the leashing. A negligible lapse in attention gave Will a moment to strike, and he took it. He couldn’t much see himself scoring another.

“What the fuck were you expecting?”

Will’s voice cracked like a whip as he waited for the other man to regain his senses. The blow wasn’t hard but it didn’t have to be, not for the temple region. It was enough to make Hannibal stumble backwards with a tilt to his frame. His fingers reached up, gliding slowly over the point of impact as his vision focused on the man who _shouldn’t_ have been standing still, waiting, if this was his desired approach.

“You are in no condition to hold a fight,” a minute smile graced his dishevelled face as he readjusted his poise. “Are you certain you wouldn’t rather settle for a verbal one?” And a converse they would but if Will wished it so, Hannibal was glad to deliver it with a clash. Maybe a little too glad.

Will refused his offer and threw another strike, and another, and another. There was something about his approach that bothered Hannibal almost immediately, something listless in the way Will pushed himself into attack. Even a wounded animal would have more fight in him then that. The bright flare of anger in his eyes was there, etched into his face, but his actions were dissonant and sluggish. Uncertain. Hannibal _hated_ uncertainty. Uncertainty was what got them both to this point. He danced out of harm’s way, observing with a growing displeasure as Will thoughtlessly opened himself to too many hits he couldn’t deflect.

“What are you doing exactly?” Hannibal asked as he grabbed the hand heading for his face and punched Will in the ribs, far from the injury but with little mercy in his delivery. “Fighting you are not.”

Will backed off, hitting one of the bunks, and a hand curled defensively around his waist. “Oh, fuck you,” he said and his words held a worse bite than any of his actions. “I know what you’re here for, get on with it,” his voice was venomous.

“Oh?” Hannibal paced closer and dodged out of another half hearted attempt. “What am I here for?” The calm in his voice was starting to give way. “What are _you_ here for?”

“You know damn well what!” Will rammed himself into the other man, driving them both to the wall. Hannibal, even with his back pressed against cold concrete, had little issue turning the tables in his favour. Much like the man he had ended only a day ago, Will found himself pressed against a solid surface with and arm lying heavy across his jugular. His hands tried to push the other away, nails scraping against fine fabric, but it did him little good.

“What the hell do you expect from me?” Will hissed but barely. The arm was pressed against his windpipe just enough to be uncomfortable but still allow him voice. “Everything’s peachy, huh? Came for a chat with a _friend_?... No... Not after how you left, after what you _did_ —”

“What _I_ did?” His accent grew thicker and the stillness of Hannibal’s voice was breaking. “Do I not have a right to feel betrayed? Are your transgressions to be forgotten? Or would you rather...” The realisation came in slow increments of disappointment. The soullessness of Will’s fight was revealed with light crystal clear. He shouldn’t have been as surprised as he was. But this was Will. Hannibal expected better.

“Oh, that’s it, isn’t it? That’s what you’re here for,” the anger in his voice was now a palpable force leashed to a low tone. “You come to grovel for release.”

The last word was a hiss as Hannibal stepped away and threw Will down on the hardwood floor. He circled him slowly as the younger man took the time to pick himself up with a pained groan.

“You should know better than that, Will. Had I wanted you dead I would have killed you,” Hannibal couldn’t hide the disgust from his face. This was terribly insulting. “Mercy is not something I’m overly known for.”

“You don’t know the first thing about mercy,” Will got to his feet, fighting for breath, and spoke through gritted teeth. “But you owe me that much, you owe me a closure.”

“I owe you nothing of sorts, and will give you nothing.”

The shove Hannibal allowed to happen was the first true sign of a fight in Will. It was rough and perpetuated by the anger that still struggled to find its aim. “You—” Will started, stabbing a finger in Hannibal’s direction but his voice broke before he could even finish the insult.

“I climbed over your walls fair and square, you _know_ I did,” Will’s voice was loud and hoarse, hands set in shaking fists. “I faked nothing and you know it, you damn well know it. But you...” he had to take a few steps back to catch some breath that seemed to be on short supply, evaporating like steam on the stove of rage.

“You destroyed mine to get in!” Will slammed a fist against his chest, frustrated and angry. Pressure built behind his eyes. “You made a nest in my ruins that I _still_ can’t tear out! You tore through everything I ever cared about—”

“I destroyed my life for you,” Hannibal took an imposing step forward. “Years to build and seconds to tear down, each stone and every brick. I exposed myself to the world. And for what?” There was another step and Will had to flinch back. “A promise that never came true because you couldn’t accept what you became, what you _are_.”

“Don’t make this about yourself, this isn’t just about you! You killed—”

“You were fickle!” Hannibal spat, abandoning manners. “I gave you a place in this world, in my own home and heart, gave you understanding—”

“You killed everyone,” Will hissed through gritted teeth.

“—gave you acceptance, all so you could deny you nature. And look where it got us both!”

“You killed her!”

With a too swift hand, Will grabbed an unlit table lamp and hurled it at Hannibal. He dodged it in time, but a shattered piece of the porcelain vase grazed his cheek. Hannibal wiped the blood with the back of his hand. A devilish grin spread across his features.

“No, you did,” Hannibal goaded but in truth he really was content with the development. The Will he knew, the one he still knows, did not give up easily, if at all.

The strength with which Will lunged at him brought them both down, but Will was too far out of breath to do anything other than smash his head against Hannibal’s. It worked out favourably for neither. Will cursed, reeling backwards from the pain, but even with eyes shut and mind spinning his hands quickly found a neck to wrap around. Hannibal responded quickly by grabbing Will’s wrists in an attempt push him away.

“Would you rather I left her there, so that she may live the rest of her life in prison?” Hannibal’s words were gravel from the hands that clawed at his throat a moment ago. Will pushed more force into them but Hannibal managed to keep them off his throat by a hair. “I do know mercy, Will. She got it. An _you_ —”

He pulled out of Will’s grasp completely and kicked him off with little grace and a lot of rage. They both picked themselves off the floor in quick succession, but Will had his disadvantages. It was Hannibal that drew him upright and stopped any swing or kick from happened with a fisted blow right into Will’s poorly healing injury. Will went pale and dropped open his mouth for a voiceless scream. Pain spiked savagely inside him, sending sharp blades through every muscle and bone in his body. Legs were giving out under the sensation that lit up every nerve he had with an endless ache. But Hannibal’s hands held him and his own clawed at the man to keep himself standing. Gales of blood surge with loud thumps in his ears, behind his eyes, in every vein and every pulse carried a nauseating burn. Will could hardly focus on anything but the pain and the voice that spoke to him.

Maybe because it was so close. So very close. Right in his ear.

“You drew my hand with Abigail,” Hannibal’s voice was disarmingly tender, almost melancholic. The manner in which his hands held Will, less so. “If I am to carry the brunt of that guilt, you will carry it with me.”

“I—” Will felt stinging behind his eyes and a warm trickle down his face. Maybe it was the pain that caused it. Maybe it wasn’t. Focus was on short supply, barely enough to form words let alone anything else. His head slumped down against Hannibal’s shoulder.

“I’ll never—” Will tried again but his voice failed him with an agonizing sob. The hands that held him let go shortly after. He dropped to his knees with a snarl full of pain.

“The only person here you can’t forgive is yourself.”

Hannibal regained some of his composure when he moved far enough away to the table where he had prepared his equipment. He took a few calming breaths, in and out, in and out. He was growing a headache from the conflict and was sure there’d be something a little more than just the cut waiting for him in the morning. Another few breaths and he raked hands through his hair, fixing it into a semblance of order. The moist touch of fabric on his shoulders and the soft whimpers quelled the rest of his turmoil. He was ready to look his equipment over. Enough time was wasted.

Will tried to crawl to the door but in his confusion he went for the bathroom instead. He couldn’t even reach the knob so, just like the dog on the other side, he raked and slammed his fist against the wood. Or maybe that was it; maybe he simply wanted to crawl into the dark of the bathroom with the last piece of his former life and let the pain chip him away.

 _Not quite_ , Hannibal thought and only started working when the younger man gave up his banging. The room was silent for a few beats before a distant rumble of thunder echoed after a flash lit up the dreary evening sky. A dog’s muffled whining was heard from beyond the bathroom door.

Hannibal picked out a gauze and doused it in chloroform. Next, he took a syringe with 60mg of clear liquid already prepared in it. He gave a squirt to test it out while throwing side glances at Will. He was still on the floor but he managed to drag his back up against the door. The look he had while watching Hannibal tinker was alarmed, skittish. His eyes were open wide, head shaking with quick and jagged motions.

“N-no, that’s—” Will’s voice was small and raspy. It got quickly muted with Hannibal’s sharp interjection.

“Not quite what you had in mind, was it?” Hannibal smiled and walked over, slowly. Will tried to scurry away but he only caused himself more pain. “A shame, because it’s the only thing you’re getting.”

And who knew what Will thought of, what horrors projected behind the mydriasis of his eyes as Hannibal covered his mouth and nose with cloth doused in a common solvent that rolled Will’s eyes backwards. Perhaps he thought he’d wake in a dark cellar to the sound of rattling chains and the ticking of a metronome. Perhaps he thought he’d wake missing a limb or two or all. It all felt so very disappointing to even imagine Will consider it.

After administrating him with a shot from the syringe, Hannibal turned him from the wall to drag him off the floor with more ease. With Will’s back against his front, he slid his arms under Will’s own and before he got the chance to rise and lift the dead weight, his felt an invasion of his senses by the old familiar.

The acrid smell was still there, itching violently against his nose. But there was also the salty tang of sweat with a dash of fear, ever so recognizable. A known weight of a warm body against his, chest rising up and down with each slow expanse of lungs. A light tinge of whisky caught in shallow exhales. Traces of dog hair stuck in flimsy flannel. The beating heart, warm and stead, under his palm. Fingers of his other hand raked through damp sweat ridden curls and they were coarse and tangled to the touch. The graze of a sharp stubble burned under the hand he placed below the man’s jaw. A brush of his nose down the exposed curve of the neck revealed a nasty synthetic fragrance. A myriad of little details that told a specific tale.

The unconscious man resting against Hannibal was, in every practical sense, a reeking mess of fatigue, and death and cheap shower gel. A pathetic display, by all accounts. Leagues away from the way he last saw him. Leagues away from the well put together copy that inhabited the space of Hannibal’s memories.

Leagues better. Real.

Will made his choice, belated as it was. He could have taken different paths, could have run to the other side of the world, could have put as much distance between them as possible. But he didn’t. In whatever rancid state of mind and flesh, Will came to him. Hannibal was the only thing Will had left. And Will... Will was the only thing Hannibal still thought was worth having left.

_Rare to get it, hard to keep it. It’s a slippery life we lead._

Hannibal left a warm kiss on his neck, allowing a sliver of delight to move him. Everything was still up in the air, hunters on the streets, an angry rich child pulling strings with rivers of unearned money, a silent threat rising from the other end of the ocean. Who knew what would happen tomorrow or just in a few hours. The mess he picked off the floor and laid on the bed was not coming with him. Too much of a handicap.

An Achilles heel.

Hannibal chuckled, sitting next to him on the bed to waste more moments watching him sleep. He did not come here to swipe Will away, willing or otherwise. He looked tired and exhausted, but still competent enough. He should fair fine against the actual bloodhounds. Will wasn’t the prime target after all. With Hannibal he would be.

Hannibal allowed himself a few more transgressions in form of lingering touches he left while taking Will’s jacket off and rolling his shirt up to expose the bandages that circled around his lower torso. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and grabbed scissors to cut the days old cloth off. Bandage scissors, of course. If one set out to do a job they best be doing it right. The clinic he got all of his equipment from will surely manage without.

The state of the injury that unfolded under murky dressings made him pull in a deep inwards sigh. It was a good thing he came well prepared.

“It seems to me, dear Will,” he picked out another pair of surgical scissors with small sharp tips that were soaking in rubbing alcohol, “you were doing a fine job of killing yourself. Certainly didn’t need my help,” he scoffed.

Hannibal leaned closer over the wound; hands examined the stitching with a surgeon’s precision and a feathery touch. His nose wrinkled from the smell as he hooked the sharp tip of the scissors under a stitch encased with inflamed flesh.

+++

Still cold. The soaked clothes didn’t help. Dark sky. Leaves never settled from the winnowing wind. Will pulled himself up on elbows. Maybe he should pull his feet out of the water. He could barely feel them. Could barely feel much of anything. The drumming of raindrops against glass windows echoed in his ears, but there was no rain here. Or windows. Just the murmur of the stream as it continued its awkward pull in the wrong direction.

Will dragged his feet out of the water. Felt like something grazed him. Lord knows how, his senses were dulled.

Yesterday he drowned and the day before as well, and frankly that’s the only things he can recall from this place. It was still an unwelcoming sight. Too harsh a difference. He wondered how long he’d have to feel like a foreigner in his own skull. Well, at least he wasn’t drowning today as well.

No, he was, but...

His hands were chaffed and raw, fingernails filled with mud. He got himself out. Huh. Imagine that. The claws helped, though. Chared harsh things of skin and bone that pulled at him with force so savage he still felt them digging into his shoulders. But they helped, so who was he to complain.

On the other side of the river bank that poor animal still restlessly paced. It had been dragging itself across Will’s dreamscape with a joyless gait. Hoof prints left indents of blood in its wake, feathers stained with deep crimson. It wobbled and for a moment Will thought the gallop would betray it and it would slip into the river. The stream would swallow the stag alive. Perhaps it would have been for the better. It suffered. It wanted, _needed_ rele—

_Will?_

He opened his eyes proper and, my god, the bed was soft. What was it made of? He felt like he sank on a bed of clouds but that’d be a little farfetched. Clouds were poor bedding considering their intangibility. The room wobbled as his head turned and all of his view was drunk with haze and disproportions. There was a man standing over him, wiping his hands with something damp and clothy; possibly a damp cloth, possibly not, possibly—who the hell was he?

“Sir,” he slurred the words out like a man who was impossibly drunk. He would have reached out as well but that’d require proper motoric functions, the kind he didn’t posses at the moment.

The man leaned over and, oh, Will recognized him! He was that asshole that broke all his toys that rainy day on the playground. Jesus, what a dick. Will would have told him that but there were far more poignant matters to express.

“What’d you give me?” Will drawled out.

The man gave him a scrutinising look and a single risen eyebrow, the kind his doctor back in Louisiana used to give him when he’d ask stupid questions like, _why can’t I run with a cast? I’ll be really careful!_ He was never careful enough. The doctor would always shake his head and give him that same look. God, what a dick.

“Morphine,” Hannibal said, sitting down next to him.

He watched Will as it took him long moments for the thought to settle, and then even longer to prop himself up on his elbows. “Is ’er more?”

“No, now pay attention,” Will rolled his eyes petulantly and plopped back down on the pillow. Hannibal snapped his fingers in front of Will’s eyes to get his attention. “I found you too easily, the others will as well. I would suggest looking for a different resting stop when you wake properly. Being less conspicuous wouldn’t hurt either. And about your condition—”

“Don’ lift, don’ run, don’ exert,” Will repeated in a sing-song manner the mantra another doctor gave him.

“Precisely. Try not to do anything foolish.”

Hannibal got up but Will’s flimsy fingers tangled around his trousers. “Wait,” he said, “important...” His fingers tugged the fabric, beckoning him to sit again. Hannibal complied and the fingers just moved from his trousers to his shirt, pulling and tugging until he was leaning over Will, close enough to catch his whisper. When he did, when he heard what Will so desperately wanted to say, Hannibal backed away in slow increments of disbelief. His face was set with a mortifyingly serious glare.

“Tell me you’re joking...”

“Autochthonous dish,” Will barely strung the word together.

“I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

Will grumbled something unintelligible, something about _drugs_ and _hangovers_. He set a hand over his stomach, and said “Not nonsense.” His eyelids got too heavy to keep fully open, so they settled at half mast.

Hannibal released a sigh and checked his watch. Rigor mortis had settled already and the rain was only going to get heavier. Work needed to be done but, perhaps, that could wait a little. Perhaps.

He took out a heavy woollen bundle from his briefcase. It took up most of the room, along with the medical equipment, but that wasn’t the sole reason he came empty handed, so to speak. He would have liked to come with something he had made himself. That’d be proper, far better and certainly appreciated by the man who couldn’t have been fed well on his journey. But kitchens were in short supply as was time. And all things considered, it was still early in the evening. Early enough to find a rustic pizzeria still in business.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagining Hannibal buying pizza has my sides in orbit! :'D It’ll probably take him ages to find the right place as well because you know that guy won’t compromise for anything that isn’t a stone oven baked pizza.
> 
> Man, this chapter was hard to write. Went through 5 drafts before I decided I wasted enough time. Hopefully it’s satisfying. Anyway, the Sudden Yet Inevitable Work™ syndrome will last through September but if there are any delays, they won’t be this large, promise.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7, feat. a lil bit of Mason, a lil bit of Hannibal and a lil bit of Will.

They were expendable and cheap, but slightly less efficient than he’d hoped for. Started off with seven and now just two were left, but Mason was pretty damn sure they were picking each other off as well. The kind of money he waved in front of them was not something easily split. Everyone wanted a share of the pie but why go for just one piece if you could try and take the whole god damn cake? It amused Mason to an extent. He was technically not losing anything and, well, frankly, none of them would be getting anything at the end of the day anyway. The Italians were expendable and cheap. No, not just them. Everyone was.

A task they did do well and got paid for, hence forth abandoning the title _expendable and free_ , was the task of finding and negotiating the rent of a fine little estate where Mason would get to have his fun. There were some criteria their benefactor set out. It had to be far enough from town to warrant no suspicion, and far enough from any other establishments. Wouldn’t want those scream to carry over unwanted ears, no? They excelled at this task, as Mason had hoped. They were natives, would have been odd if they didn’t.

His little piggies took some care with their transport. Mason had them all silenced, gassed, and driven away in the dead of night. The Italians provided trucks. He didn’t ask, they didn’t tell, all was well. Another service they got paid for, such was life, but pennies all of it considering the figure he put on the Doctor’s head. Mason, his doctor and the American muscle came to the estate a few days after, when all was fixed and ready to his wishes; when a few more Italians died and an injured man slipped from their sight. Efficiency was a hard to get these days, it would seem. Mason didn’t bother venting; they were expendable. Their point was to serve and to fuck off. If fucking off meant dying, well, so be it.

“Listen here boys. When I say I want something it means I get something. No questions here, no _maybes_ , no _it isn’t practical._ I don’t care. You will do it or you will sleep with the pigs,” he cackled. They didn’t know these pigs were special. That’d be one way to find out. A damn shame they played along.

Mason, you see, really loved the maze he had made to stress the animals out; the iron contraption that kept them confused and agitated to an extreme. _Tough love,_ he’d say, _just like papa taught us._ It also made for some viscous and angry beasts. Everything had to be perfect, and by perfect he meant exactly the same. Mason wanted it so and the Italians were tasked to make it so. A few extra pennies spent on their trouble and they officially earned the title _cheap_. Where they got the easily silenced builders and workmen, he didn’t ask, it didn’t matter. Little mattered to Mason these days beyond getting his hands on some good old fashion revenge. He had other people around him to worry about logistics and cover.

A long slithering road shrouded by forests of tall pine trees from both sides made sure to cover their way to the estate from prying eyes. Mason’s pleasure grew exponentially the closer they got, even more so when they drove off the asphalt road and onto a barely marked one, dusty and narrow. The estate itself looked like the haciendas he saw when the occasional channel surfing stopped him to laugh at a few of those Mexican soaps. This one was a one story house that spread in length with large arched windows, white stucco walls and a low-pitched terra cotta tiled roof. The insides were a little bare but, frankly, Mason couldn’t give less of a shit for the aesthetics.

Mason couldn’t much enjoy any of the beauty and charm this fine piece of land could offer him. Couldn’t much enjoy anything, period. The only things that did bring him joy were his darlings and their cacophony of grunts and squeals. Their songs promised a vengeance, and already a choir echoed from the barn hiding behind the luxurious house. That’s where all the fun would be had. That’s where the only fun would be had. His gorgeous little herd was merrily entertained, daily as it were, with screams of men running from loudspeakers and rag dolls stuffed with blood and meat. Mostly pork. The irony made Mason laugh.

Not much to do but think when you’re stuck like Mason was, so he gave a lot of thought to what he’d do in there. Well not he himself, but his commands would be the initiators. He settled for nothing yet, too many and too little options at the same time. A little thing Mason was certain of was that he did not, in any case, want to give Dr. Lecter a quick and easy death. There’d be ropes involved, perhaps the crane of a tow truck to keep him hanging while the piggies nibbled on his feet. Yes, he liked the sound of that. The doctor he brought with himself was there for a few reasons, one of which was not only his own benefit. He was also there to keep Lecter alive for as long as humanly possible. There’d be some skinning involved perhaps, eye for an eye and all that. Auto-cannibalism sounded appealing. Branding even more so.

For as much thought Mason gave it, he was still working in stride, utterly sure he’d come up with his best in the heat of the moment. This entire chase was, in essence, a rush job. But who could resist after the fiasco that sent Baltimore in a metaphorical blaze. Who could resist!? Mason sure couldn’t. Not to mention the peculiar happenings inside the Doctor’s house. He was oddly curious about it all. What had truly happened there? Mason was most curious about the odd role that FBI agent played. There was still a proper punishment to devise for Mr. Graham who just couldn’t seem to keep his nose out of anyone’s business. Mason would find a way to make it all work in his favour, if the guy lived long enough.

He dwelled on that thought. _If the guy lived long enough_. The chances that he would were slim. Lecter wanted him dead most of all, right? But if they found him alive... Mason wasn’t quite as dumb as everyone took him for, he knew math quite well and could put two and two together with ease. If Graham was found, and found alive, that could only mean they stroke some sort of deal. A partnership perhaps? It made sense. Graham was present that day Lecter made a mockery out of Mason. He remembered vagaries, chatty animals and luminescent colours, truly senseless things in the best and worst high of his life. But he certainly remembered the face. The nonchalance in the eyes of a man watching Mason eat himself, as if that was nothing to report back to home base. As if Graham no longer played ball for the FBI. Well, clearly he didn’t any more. The peculiar mess of their relationship sounded like an interesting thing to look into. That could be fun, prying information out of him, poking a few more holes into the former agent. So many ideas, so little time.

It was a great shame, Mason had to admit. It was such a shame Lecter opted for so many poor choices and meddlesome action with the Verger family. The Doctor was an interesting individual, definitely someone he could have had some good funny times with. It was a damn shame things went down this road. This road where Mason woke with a howl every night, with a need to jump out of bed only to find himself unable. Frustrating, about as much as the Cheshire grin on his sister’s face. He paid his doctors extra just so he could scream his frustration at them. Or maybe he was paying them extra to turn their heads from all the petite visitors he had lately, in alarming frequency. A man was frustrated and a man needed release. Yelling and threatening could only get him so far. Someone else’s screaming? Twice as enjoyable, and the tears were an exquisite addition. Who would have thought the little urchins could get so teary and fearful being offered nothing but chocolate? Ungrateful, really. They deserved their misery about as much as they deserved their abandonment.

Mason wondered if he could get Lecter to cry. He’d have to find a very special flask to keep that in, a rare delicacy. Mason thought it unlikely but damn if he wouldn’t try.

+++

A canvas of gray shades filled the sky. The early morning was as drab as the night before left it, washed of colour and cheer with a drizzle that wouldn’t relent. Most people dragged themselves through the city of Cavo on this bleak and early hour. Only those late for work rushed around, unhappiness and a yearning for bed written all over their faces. The weather was just awful.

Hannibal sat in the comfort of a covered patio, delightfully reading through _La Repubblica._ The cappuccino he got was quite poor in taste, the milky foam unvarnished and with the consistency of soap. The croissant he ordered to ease his morning appetite was almost certainly yesterday’s pastry that got heated in a microwave. Biting down into it assured him it was made with margarine and had little business calling itself a _croissant_ to begin with. His breakfast was as foul as the weather all things considered, yet he sat there with a delighted curl to his lips as eyes glazed over someone’s rather interesting boating accident he just couldn’t concentrate on reading. His mind was elsewhere, stuck almost twelve hours back in a room where his eyes had trouble tearing away from a sleeping man.

The dog he had let out of the bathroom paid him zero attention as it rushed out and on the bed Will was sleeping on. He gave him a few ginger licks but the medications kept Will in a deep slumber, unable to respond. Hannibal recalled being stuck with his hand on the door knob, half intent to leave and half ready to stay until morning, to see the fog lifted from those clear blue eyes, to test if he was willing to talk with something other than his fists. Sense would come to him. Grieving periods could be difficult things to overcome, lengthy things, Hannibal understood that. Will needed a little bit of a hand with his.

Hannibal huffed after another sip of his god-awful coffee. His own grieving period was difficult. Still is. A place for three under the warm Mediterranean sun, far from the troubles of a droll world. The plan, no, dream he left in Baltimore was clearly a thing to sweet to have had in his world. It didn’t make forgetting it easier, didn’t make Will’s treachery and less cruel, didn’t make the chaos it all caused any less difficult. He remembered allowing forgiveness to seep in, but his actions were still harsh and hurtful. Merely a reflection of his own feelings.

Things would never be the same for them, wherever it was this current predicament would take them. Legislation was a slow beast and to worry about it this quick would be folly. Clearly it was not quite the same for Will. Hannibal expected he would have had time to reorganize and compartmentalize the turmoil his own actions caused, the turmoil Will left him in. Yet life proved to be surprising in the most interesting way, as always. That was how he chose to call it, Will’s reappearance. A surprise. Even if Will came in shambles. Even if their encounter frighteningly shook Hannibal’s ever so still foundations. He could still feel the aftershock.

Hannibal assumed Will would heed his warnings any stay out of the crosshairs; it was the smart choice and an easy one. He did not worry, though, that Will would slip too far and away from him. No, no, too late for that. As belated as Will’s choice was it was still a choice, loud and clear. The mystery of what would await for them was what actually had Hannibal smiling. A hard thing to predict, this mongoose.

He left two Euros, a half eaten croissant and an unfinished coffee. As pleasant as his reverie could get, there were better ways to spend one’s breakfast. It was the most crucial meal of the day and this day, like most had been since Mason turned his snout in his direction, was going to be long.

A few people groggy with sleep turned their heads, almost resentfully, at the man under the black umbrella that left his post with a whistling tune on his lips.

+++

Winston was relentless with his nuzzling, mostly due to the strange rectangle object that was left on the top bunk. He couldn’t reach it, try as he might, and the smell that wafted from it was driving him bonkers. It’s when he took to barking that his master started waking and shushing him. Will draped a heavy limb over the dog and pressed him against his chest. The dog took to whining then.

“What is it...?”

With each waking moment, memories of the previous night leaked through the cracks of sleep. The face, the words, the violence, and all of it mixed with unorthodox sweetness. A strange memory still fiddled on the forefront of his mind and it felt too ridiculous to be anything but a dream. It’s when he finally noticed what had Winston so up in arms, when he became cognisant of the smell. Only then he realised he truly did ask Hannibal for a pizza. Stranger than that, he complied. Will propped himself up on elbows and tried to imagine that happening, tried to find out what would have compelled him to go through with it other than a drugged man’s musings. The taste of medicine stuck heavy on the back of his throat.

Will looked down at what covered him and his thoughts were easily swayed by the odd blanket. He couldn’t recall seeing such a woollen one in the room, heavy and gray with a Herringbone pattern. He lifted it and, oh, it wasn’t a blanket at all, but a coat. A very familiar coat. He cursed, dropping the thing and his own weight back against the mattress. Will felt a prickle of betrayal in the way his heart paced a little quicker, chest felt a little warmer. He rubbed his face and groaned. For once in his life, his mind did not work against him to remind him where, or on whom he had last left his coat. Or maybe he had simply reached a new level of proficiency with lies. That’s the only way he could have gotten to this point, right? Lying to himself? Or maybe it just felt good to pretend. It certainly felt very human.

When Will got his feet off the bed, he became aware of what had happened to him, of why he was even put on drugs. A note was set against a phone he hadn’t seen before, next to it a case of pills, antibiotics, and painkillers. How thoughtful.

 _Two a day, one in the morning and another in the evening._  
Stay off the alcohol and stay out of trouble, preferably by leaving this room   
as soon as your legs can efficiently carry you.   
Try not to pull another stitch.   
– H.L.

His legs could efficiently carry him, but it was three in the morning, his stomach was a gaping black hole and he was too tired and miraculously still relieved of pain to give much of a shit about anything. Winston got the pizza crust and Will took most of everything else. Sleep grabbed him easily enough, but once again it was Winston’s shuffling that woke him up. It felt like only moments had passed but a glance towards the clock told him it was five o’clock. In the afternoon, he had to assume. The dreary gray from the windows showed no sun, but it had to have been afternoon. Will immediately popped painkillers to beat the drowsiness that withheld the pain away for what were surely mere moments.

Winston nervously paced about the door leading outside. He stopped when Will had his attention on him and tried to point out... _something._ His head would twist from the door to Will and back to the door, no wag in his tail. For a moment Will thought he wanted to go out, for a run or for a piss or something, but that wasn’t how this dog would usually express those needs. He’d be a lot more agitated and frisky. This was Winston being awfully cautious yet still wanting to point out something.

Will stepped to the door and pressed his ear against it. He heard movements in the hallway. A look through the key hole and some twenty seconds later, a body appeared on the other side. It certainly didn’t look like any sort of room service, especially when the door across started getting forced open.

A curse slipped from him and Will took to finding his taser. No rest for the weary, it would seem. Or the wicked. Telling who was who in this particular classification was muddled business.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this was slow and uneventful. My pacing is glacial, c'est la vie. But shit will hit the fan soon.  
> Btw we all know what _chocolate_ stands for when it comes to Mason, right?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8, feat. torture and mercy, an extravagantly gay crime scene and the princess being kidnapped.

The door swung open and a man burs in with a gun aimed high, silencer. He took a quick glance of the room from where he stood. Someone was definitely staying here. One of the beds had tussled sheets and a coat on it, meds on the counter, pizza box splayed open and... He noticed last light from under the door of the bathroom. The sound of running water came from there.

 _Ok, we’re on to something_. This revelation sure as hell looked promising, a lot better than all the other empty rooms. He was tired of looking around, felt a bit underpaid for all this shit. The fact that he didn’t know a lick of Italian didn’t help.

He stepped inside the room, cautious and slow, but he didn’t even make it to three before his phone started beeping.

“Shit,” he whispered as he scrambled to quickly answer the thing. He had all the intention of hanging up quickly, just didn’t want the call to repeat itself. “I’m busy you dipshits, call—”

He made another step into the room, four in total. The man on the other end of the line was no working acquaintance of his; it was the only reason he didn’t hang up immediately. There were instructions to follow, people to inform after. It was, technically, more important than whoever was in the bathroom. He still kept his eyes on that door, though. He still had all the reason to be careful.

“Yeah, I heard you,” his response to the phone call was a hushed whisper and he did pay attention but it was split half way. Another step. He held the gun more firmly, squeezed the phone tighter. Everything was fine. The call was almost over. He memorized the words.

The door behind him slammed shut. He turned on his heel with a loud proclamation of surprise, ready as ever to unload the tranq gun. He didn’t get to do that, didn’t even get to properly see what slammed the door. It sure as hell wasn’t the wind because he felt a sharp jab in his lower abdomen, and what he saw were white stars filling out his vision until there was nothing to see.

Will picked the phone off the floor with a groan, and that was probably what gave him away. He was ready to terminate the call that was still running before he heard a familiar voice call out his name from the other end of the line.

“I’m a little busy,” Will held the phone to his ear with a shoulder. His hands were occupied with sheets he was tearing.

“Why are you still in that room?” Hannibal’s question was preceded with a barely audible sigh, and Will could almost see his nostrils flare.

“What makes you think I’m still in there?” Will wasn’t quite working up to speed with the guy on the floor. He started waking so he earned himself a graceless but effective kick in the head.

There was something Will could only classify as obnoxious silence on the other end of the line.

“Were you calling in to tell them where to pick up the next batch of flesh?” Will continued to tear sheets. “Is that where you are right now?”

“You’d do well to stay out of this, Will. If Mason—”

“Your advice has a tendency to be detrimental to my wellbeing.”

“So you’re choosing to ignore it for a clearly unsafe alternative,” Hannibal didn’t even make a question out of it, instead presenting it as disappointing fact.

“At least it’s my own,” Will paused for breath and a smile crept on his lips. “ _Don’t run_ – one of the doctor’s orders, no?”

“Not quite what I had in mind with that one. This is for your own go—”

“Where are you?” The question slipped from Will without a thought of preparation. No time to be surprised or even consider if he actually heard himself say that; Hannibal’s answer was a brisk “Stay out of it.” The commandeering voice left no wiggle room before the abrupt break of the line.

Will threw aside the phone with a scoff. The ripped sheets were used to tie up the guy lying on the floor, both his hands and legs. Winston had the task of looking over him while Will took to the bathroom to make some use of the water that was running. Groggy with sleep was no way to question a man. He washed his face, rubbing clear water into his eyes, and left his mind of the leash for just a moment. There were two ways to play this game and running, well, he was tired of it. He ran this far, he ran until he found exactly who he was looking for. He thought that’d be it, that’d be his full-stop, his period. An easy way out, no? But life was never easy. Even dying was hard. That made him laugh as he tapped the towel over his face. One thing he was certain with; he was too tired of running, _towards_ or _from_ something. Himself included.

After washing the sleep from his eyes, Will grabbed the toothpaste. A change of perspective then, he could certainly do with one. If running was a poor choice, what was the other option? Mason would be unrelenting, that was not even a question. He’d find people, he had resources. The question he asked Hannibal over the phone made an unusually amount of sense to him all of a sudden. Problems had to be dealt with, so why deal with them alone? Will noticed the phone he had not seen before, resting on the nightstand. Hannibal had no intentions of leaving Will alone, and Will could scarcely imagine the point of running from him after working so hard to run _to_ him. Lying to himself was one thing but the string his heart kept tugging on was difficult to deny. Very difficult.

Maybe it was the drugs still spiralling in him, maybe it was the new patchwork the good Doctor left him with or maybe... maybe it was yesterday’s exchange of words and blows. Something there was definitely the cause of the way his lungs pulled for breath with a lot more levity and peace.

Will’s gums were bleeding from all the brushing, but his mind still worked details over, lost in its own reflection in the mirror. Hannibal’s refusal to say anything over the phone didn’t bother him much. Why would it? There was a man right in the next room who know exactly the information Will wanted, and more so. There could be a few more things to fish out of him, one of which was Mason’s whereabouts. Surely he wasn’t still on the yacht. The pigs were brought over for a reason and not one that could be safely executed on a public harbour.

Will set his unruly curls into place with wet fingers and gave himself a look-over. Slightly less terrible than yesterday. The sleep did him good to wipe the mauve shades from beneath his eyes. He stroked the back of his hand across the scruff on his face. _Could do with a trimming_ , he thought but promptly set it aside when Winston’s barking nudged him back.

“Almost done,” he responded, an old habit where he’d address his dogs as if they understood him. As if they were people. Well, for him they were. His thoughts dwelled for a moment on all the dogs he left homeless again. He hoped they found a new one, better one even.

If his tail was any indicator, Winston was having fun as a watchdog, pacing with a growl around the guy on the floor as he slowly came to. Will kneeled down next to him, setting the taser to its lowest voltage.

“I’m so glad you know English,” he fiddled with the settings and made sure they guy saw exactly what was waiting for him. “Otherwise this would have been a very awkward conversation.”

“What are—”

The guy received a jab in his chest immediately upon opening his mouth. The voltage was low enough not to knock him unconscious yet still it felt like a swarm of bees ran their stingers on every nerve of the guys body. Muscles convulsed. Breath hitched.

“The only things I want to hear from your mouth are the answers to my questions,” Will fired the taser up in front of the guys face, close to his eyes, and he lit up with fear as he tried to back away from it. “Prolonged silence will get you the same treatment.”

“Listen man, whatever—”

Why did it always take two mistakes for people to finally learn? Will gave him a moment to stop convulsing and roll his eyes back into place before he dropped his first question.

“Shall we? First; who knows you’re here?”

+++

Typing out the name of the street into the phone’s GPS took some work with the special characters. Even then Will wasn’t entirely sure if it was taking him to the right place.

He pulled the wool coat over himself tighter. There was a draft in the vehicle, per Winston’s amusement. The dog’s head was stuck out the window of the passenger’s seat, his tongue lolling on the wind. The sight of him brought Will a wide grin on his face. Winston could definitely use some fun in his life after what he’s been through.

The vehicle belonged to the man still lying on the floor of the room Will was staying in. It was no science fiction to hotwire a car, he’d done it before, sometimes even to his own car because his keys would occasionally grow feet. And by _grow feet_ he meant his dogs would hide them. Hilarious bunch. They all took some time to learn manners.

Will’s eyes would shift from the GPS to the road every once in a while, half of him still skimming through his expectations. The other half was a smidgen worried about what was left to bleed in that room. A hundred voices in his skull screamed for murder and a great many yearned for a release of extravagance. But Will’s own voice, a stark difference to the fakes and the spectres that was somehow a lot easier to find nowadays, spoke different. There was no urge, no pull of anger to motivate his hands, no want to kill. It just... It didn’t feel right. The guy was freaked out beyond belief, even though he didn’t beg. He learned begging was not the answer to a question soon enough. It was all in his eyes, they way he hardly blinked, the way they were so desperately open wide staring at Will’s hands, the look of _I’m just a guy that needed some money, man, c’mon, don’t do this, I didn’t come here to kill you, I’m just following some crazy rich guys orders_.

 _Poor choice of employment_ , Will thought yet still couldn’t get himself to use either the gun with the live rounds he found on him or the terribly tiny pocket knife. Nevertheless, they guy needed to be stopped, one pair of hands less to worry about. So Will did just that, he stopped him. He slashed both of his Achilles tendons and left him as such in the room. Not the wisest choice perhaps, but the owner at the reception was missing and her guest book was up for tearing and shredding. Will doubted he’d spend much longer in the city for it to bite him in the ass, not if all went well. And wasn’t that a refreshing way of thought?

Will’s lack of familiarity with the roads and the streets made sure he drove for a long time, longer than necessary. Once he reached the point the GPS was showing he circled around the street with the car for a while, uncertain. It was a little urban, maybe too much so. Two cafes squashed tiny and unremarkable on the corners of the street, a few buildings around, mostly three story houses of red brick and illuminated windows. The sky had reached a deep crimson on the west by then, a shroud of gray creeping up along it, still muddy with clouds threatening rain. Some people walked around, carefree and inattentive, couples and children and adults rushing with phones glued to their heads. Will left the car behind on one of the corners. A quick look around and he and Winston took towards the building in stride.

Residential one, definitely. The smell of vegetable minestrone filled the first floor, loud music echoed from the second and the third one was where he had to go. Each floor housed three apartments, but the third one had only one door marked with a name. Will tried the both the unmarked ones, hand gripping tightly around the gun, but the doors were locked. It came as a surprise to him. Very carefully he tried the knob of the door that actually had a surname on it, _Baldi_ , and it opened. Will ushered Winston in quickly and closed the door.

The lights were on. Will motioned for the dog to stay and pointed at the door, hoping to hear a bark of warning if anyone tried to get in. The apartment was bare but serviceable; kitchenette with a large fridge, a small sofa and a modern looking CRT television set. Training equipment in the corner. Bare walls, all white but smudged with yellow on the ceiling. A heavy smell of cigarettes clung to the curtains that expanded with slow gusts of air through the opened window. It reminded him of the ones he bought, of how much he wanted to light another one. Maybe later, if there was a moment to spare. And the place, as odd as it was, made some sense when Will thought about it. It probably belonged to one of the Italians and cleaning it up would take a bit more finesse then the last one, stuck in the middle of nowhere. It would slow them down. Clever.

Speaking of the bodies, the bathroom was empty and that only left the bedroom. Instead of stepping into the room, Will allowed himself to step into a mind that could not have been too far from this scene. The bed was made for one yet there were two on it. Little attention was given to the spills of blood, and why should it? More time for them to clean it, all soaked into the sheets, mattress and carpet with the colour of old rust. The days old blood took its time to flow out through large chest wounds. A spear of metal, some kind pole, likely something taken from the bathroom, pierced the back of one of the bodies directly through the heart and came out the other side. It was further pushed, though, right into the chest of the second body. Both of them were left on the bed, stripped of clothes and laid on their sides facing each other. The size of the bed didn’t allow much room for space between the two males, but that looked to be the intent. Thin white cotton was wrapped over their heads, obscuring the identities and their own faces from each other. From where Will stood, unmoving and by the door frame, if he had to guess he’d say they were suffocated, all theatrics inflicted post mortem. But that’d be the sort of detail he’d be interested in if he was on an actual crime scene, doing a job he no longer had. This was far from it.

His eyes lingered on the metal rod, the way it lodged itself into both hearts with a precise path and aim. It whispered of a flagrant stinger still stuck in the perpetrators mind. And thinking of the devil must have clearly invoked him because Will’s nudge into reality was a vibration coming from his pocket.

“Mason’s men will be here soon, you’re needlessly endangering yourself.”

Hannibal was clearly in a no-bullshit mood, having answered so quick and harsh it didn’t allow Will to even begin to say the words firmly planted on his tongue. It didn’t stop him from completely ignoring his warning as Will took large steps across the room, avoiding the coagulated blood on the side of the bed as he went for the window.

“Are you sure you didn’t want me to see this?” And Will said it with such a sharp grin it was impossible to mistake it from his voice. “It sure looks like you had me in mind.”

Will stood by the window gently pulling at the curtains enough to see the street. Hannibal was around, all right, but the light of day wasn’t on Will’s side and neither was the number of street lamps.

“I may have,” the voice was a tad vexed this time. “Hardly an issue, though. We’ve had our talk.”

“Oh yes, I remember the hanged man quite well,” and Will also remembered the slew of indignation that came with it. A sudden irritation filled him, overwhelming in this room where another confession laid with naked ire for him to absorb. Where was Will’s right to feel wounded?

“Several talks then,” Hannibal started but was cut off with a few half formed words from Will he didn’t even let himself finish. Wasn’t sure if he wanted to until he heard Hannibal answer with a politely question _yes_.

“Honestly, Hannibal...” Will said after a pause of silence through which he heard the engine of a car roar by. A moment later he saw a car pass the street below the window. “What are you hoping to achieve here?” He thought of the night before, of the gutter he had been in for quite some time now and the way this day felt significantly less glum then all the prior ones. Still, he felt like he didn’t understand, like he was missing pieces or had forgotten them.

“You’re interests run only as deep as my ugliness and depravity. That doesn’t even make half of me.”

Will heard the rustling of paper muffle a short sigh of disapproval.

“I know exactly who you are Will Graham. I've known you since before you knew yourself in full. You cling to my so called inklings of humanity like a man to a life raft. Yet here you are, seeking me out, entirely aware of the full picture.” The screech of a chair against pavement disrupted the flow of words. A few voices murmured in passing. “Do you think me incapable or returning such sentiments?”

“Allow me the benefit of the doubt,” Will’s voice was low and sombre. The odd feeling of suffocation drove him out of the room with the bodies. “What happened in—” he couldn’t even say the name of the city, let alone anything else. He wrapped the free hand around himself and leaned against the closed door, opting for a different approach in words.

“I don’t think we’ll ever be even,” Will’s voice was still mellow, not a drop of fight in him this evening. He didn’t need it; he learned yesterday words had a harder blow. “How can we, when you exalt your suffering over mine. You don’t care.”

A rare moment it was to catch Hannibal Lecter without a word of response, only the echo of footsteps and breathing broke the silence of the phone call.

“Leave the building, please. You’ll see me close by,” and he hung up.

The even and measured voice could not hide from Will the way the sharp edges dulled and softened under the silence.

Winston waited by the door, obediently. For the most part, Will didn’t rush. He couldn’t. Going up and down the stairs was a particular sort of hell that made him feel like he just got off the surgical table. That and spite. There was definitely a hand full of spite. It served him well, his lack of haste. Things would have progressed in a significantly more terrifying way had both of them been on the street.

“ _Mio dio, Ana!!_ ” Will heard a loud screech of tires from close by, followed by a woman’s loud yelling. He just about finished his descent from the stairs when he heard it and Winston rushed in front of him and out the door. When Will peeked through the exit, he only saw the tail end of a dark van and the skid marks it made on the other corner of the street.

“ _Chiama la polizia, Ana!!_ ” Across the street a woman in a trench coat and an umbrella was running full speed towards one of the tiny cafes where a dumbstruck waitress had dropped everything from her tray. Will already drew a conclusion but the familiar word in her yell made him all the more certain of it.

Will whistled for Winston’s attention while fiddling with the mobile’s GPS again. Simply no rest was allowed for the wicked, not while problems still existed. And that’s what Mason was – a very familiar problem. No more and no less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week, Hannibal giving approx 3.78% of a fuck for his predicament. That's a total of 3.78% more than last time so I guess that's a win for Mason? Yeah, good job buddy. Also forgive me if I don't manage an update in the usual 7 day period, the following week will be hellishly time consuming.
> 
> Consider entertaining yourself with the following question - What did Will do to Freddie? Is she really dead?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9, feat. cramped cages, one-sided psychoanalysis, Mason being a terrible employer and a Trojan horse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spared you an update last week because I’d have to shoot myself in the foot for publishing something so forced and shit. This is significantly less shit than the hypothetical chapter you would have received last week. Also September madness is over, no more delays, this is a promise!

Mason’s men were stepping up their game, staking out the scene he’d sent them on and making a damn fine job to cover themselves. It took them three times to learn but better late than never. The tides shifted very quickly with just one mistake, one strenuous need. Will’s damning insistence on involvement drew out a weakness.

Still, that wasn’t quite what went through Hannibal’s mind when he felt a pinch in his shoulder, when he took out a tranquilizing dart and when he felt legs wobble and vision blur. Mostly variations of  _Should have seen this coming_ and  _Hopefully they won’t notice anyone else._  That was what stopped him from exerting the effort to go round the corner where Will was possibly waiting. Memory failed him from that point on but waking in an odd environment did little to sway him.

Hannibal felt metal below him, rigid and cold against his back, but the sight that greeted him when he sat up was that of his carpet. The carpet in his former office. He stood up and caught the presence of a light tremor reverberating through him, a motion and a sway. It passed as soon as his dreamscape stopped tearing and mingling with voices and distorted faces that held him down. A fleeting touch of synthetic rope brushed against his wrists before disappearing along with the echoes. He was denied a waking, stuck almost favourably in a familiar environment. Best to enjoy it while it lasted. Unfortunately he was not alone in the room.

The creek of the desk behind him told Hannibal everything he needed to know. An quiet sigh left him. This was as good a time as any to destroy the creation that only served to mock him. A morbid thing to enjoy, considering recent circumstances, but the thought of getting rid of it elated him. Turning around to face it was in and of itself a surprise. An unexpected one, but delightful nevertheless.

Leaning against his desk was Will Graham in his three days old clothes looking like he may have just gotten up himself, a little sleep deprived and red eyed, lacking some proper colour in his face. Hannibal had no more room in him for surprise at the pleasant touch of joy this sight gave him. Will stared at the opened office door through which no light passed. The other side of it was pitch black and thick with darkness that could swallow a man whole. Will must have seen something in it for he could not tear his eyes away. Or someone.

“Those are some terrifying memories,” Will said, nudging his head towards the blackness. “I can recognize a few; I have them myself. Immortal and unrelenting. They’ve sewn themselves into this place firmly. Weren’t you the one who said forgetfulness promoted a healthy mind?” There’s nothing snide in his voice, just curiosity.

“Some memories we deny ourselves to forget until they become our own private demons,” Hannibal answered as he took a few steps closer. “And some refuse to be forgotten, no matter how much we try.”

“They do, don’t they?” Will turned to face him with a wan smile.

The room shook violently for a brief moment and Hannibal had to brace himself against the desk for balance. Will voiced Hannibal’s exact thoughts to a T as they were forming.

“The car, if it’s a car at all, went off road. A bumpy one. Secluded, rural, hard to find,” Will turned and asked “Are you worried?”

“No,” Hannibal straightened his waistcoat with a few strokes and leaned on the table next to the projection. He avoided looking towards the blackness. He knew exactly what was there to see. Harmony was a tricky thing to find even in his most sacred of places when a discord of emotions still stirred in him. They would settle soon enough, by hook or by crook.

“Why not?”

“I’ll find a way.”

“And if you can’t?”

“I’ll make one.”

“And if you don’t?”

“Then that’ll be the end of it,” Hannibal turned a sceptical look towards the Imago. “What point are you trying to get to?”

“What if I’m there when you wake up?” The grin on Will’s face was cheeky, knowing exactly that was Hannibal’s worst case scenario. “Giving a shit about someone sure is a burden, huh?”

Hannibal would have frowned but would not have called him a liar. That would be a lie. Instead his mouth filled with taste of salt and copper and he felt it a lot sooner than the sting of the blow. The man who delivered it stepped away as soon as he saw the eyes open and focus on him. Focus was a bit of stretch, seeing how the world was still a hazy blur. Whatever they shot him with had one hell of a kick.

“Good morning, starshine!”

Hannibal didn’t need a good eye sight to recognize the chatty white shape sitting a few feet away from him. The pitch of his voice, the sing-song way in which it mocked everything it was directed at – Mason never lost that theatrical penchant, even strapped to a wheel chair. A thing to rectify perhaps, but not at the moment unfortunately. Being tied up and drugged was a relatively large wrench in any plan that required freedom of movement. Hannibal could barely feel his limbs and they did him the courtesy of strapping him to a hand truck.

 _A little later then,_ he mused while trying not to focus out Mason’s words. He might have actually said something useful.

“—real party won’t start until we find those two runaway mutts, and then! Oh boy, and then we’re going to have such a great time together, you and I. Bet you’re slowly starting to regret it, huh?” Mason sounded as cheerful as ever. Hannibal was a tad disappointed he could not see his face, but the remark on the  _runaway mutts_ brought him satisfaction enough.

“Realisation ever so slowly dawning. It’s a hard thing to accept, isn’t it? No longer the one in charge, no longer setting up the game. Oh no, my turn now! I’d say you’re backed up against a corner, Lecter, but that’d be a lie, really. You’re in a cage without a lock to pick, and give it a few more moments you’ll be in a literal one too!” A sharp bellowing laugh forced itself out of Mason’s mouth along with all the desperate need for validation of superiority. “I bet you wish you fed me whole to those dogs, huh Lecter?”

“Oh no,” Hannibal voice was gravel. He thoroughly licked the blood against his lips that streamed from his nose and swallowed. It helped, certainly, with the dryness of his throat. Sedatives had a tendency of doing that. An awfully inconvenient side effect, but it could have been a lot worse. “I prefer you just as you are, Mason.”

A dry chuckle escaped the crippled young man before he snapped with rancor at his men to get Lecter out of his sight. “We’ll see how funny you find all of this with your legs gnawed off,” he murmured.

Hannibal couldn’t resist throwing one last comment before they wheeled him out.

“In fact, I believe you could do with a few more improvements.”

+++

It was hard to see much under the thick shroud of trees and darkness, parked among the shrubs and far far from the only light source. The light source being a large house on private property. Will hoped it was the right private property.

He had reservations about opening the car’s dome light, just in case, so he settled for the light of a cigarette. He could use something a lot stronger to get through this, but the old pleasure of nicotine would do its job for now. Will was wasting time at this point, if he had any time to begin with. He should have gotten out ten minutes ago but something still troubled him. He looked down towards Winston who had sprawled over his lap for some quality petting.

“I’m not leaving you in the car,” Will finally said. It was cruel to even consider it for this long. The worst case scenario would leave him trapped and dying. He wouldn’t do that to a dog even if he was sure he’d be back.

Will took one last drag of the cigarette before flicking it away, half done, to join the others on the moist dirt. He opened the door and Winston slipped out quick and excited for adventure.

“Can you be quiet, boy?” Will kneeled down next to him, grasping gently the dog’s jaw with both hands. “I’m going to need you to be very quiet,” he whispered and let go of Winston’s jaw after a few seconds that he hoped made their point. “Can you do that?”

The dog tilted his head curiously but made no sound. It was as good an answer Will was going to get.

+++

Their fatal mistake was not gagging him. The cage they put him in was uncomfortably small. There was room in its length, with its rectangle shape, but the height of it allowed him to barely sit up and lean against the bars. As soon as most of Hannibal’s functions recovered from the admirably potent sedative, the men looking over him started changing out in rapid succession. For starters, the location was foreboding. None of the men who circulated in and out to keep an eye on him were awfully comfortable in the barn, where the maze had been set up and filled with soft rummaging of a deadly breed of pig.

But what really drove all of them out was the lack of a gag. Poking holes into people’s soft spots was terribly fun, but first one had to find them. And Hannibal had all the time in the world to talk at them. Their body language was terrible at keeping secrets, even if their silence was admirable. Sometimes tasers would be threatened with, but few got the nerve to approach the cage of a man who bit someone’s nose off.

The first guy, an American he hadn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting, lasted for 30 minutes. Not that Hannibal could tell the exact time, but if he had to put a number on the length of their one-sided conversation, then it would be 30 minutes. Mommy issue were the tipping point and he left after fulfilling his threat with the taser. It left Hannibal with an awful cramp in his shoulder, but otherwise satisfied.

The second one that came in was one of the two remaining Italians; a twitchy blond as nervous as deer on the firing range. He tried his best to appear casual, glanced around while poignantly avoiding Hannibal’s cage. But the first statement that stumbled even remotely into his life turned him rigid. Even the vaguest statements felt relevant when the subject was riled and sensitive. Hard not to be; he lost most of his co-workers to the man cramped into a tiny cage. He lasted 15 minutes, the turning point being when Hannibal poked a hole of interest into the issue of family. A vague mention of children had the blond sweating bullets.

“You risk a lot in the hope of gaining something you have no assurance will come. I wonder what the money is for... Status? Health?” the last word elicited a twitching reaction from the Italian. He rubbed at the back of his neck in a frantic motion. “The family must really need it for you to go through this much trouble.”

The Italian finally turned his head towards the cage where Hannibal waited to play him with his most sympathetic smile. “Mason’s known for throwing people under busses when he’s wrung all the use from them. Don’t get too comfortable just because I’m in a cage. I’m hardly the only  _monster_ around.”

The man bolted out, not a word said.

The third candidate to watch Hannibal over was the other Italian. The bald one. The leader, or so he wished himself to be, poised himself as such. He was so far the best at keeping the mask of indifference on his face. He forgot to cover his eyes though. Hannibal saw the greens swishing in his eyes, smelled the greed from his fine leather jacket very quickly. A man like him would only be worried about one thing.

“He won’t pay you,” Hannibal said with certain finality to his words that suggested he wouldn’t be talking anymore. He didn’t need to. Its simplicity and conviction stabbed the man right between the eyes. It didn’t need elaboration; it fed directly into his suspicion, gave them voice. The lack of bullshit, the quick and simple and especially the use of his own language touched on the man very quickly. What little he said to him, Hannibal made sure to use the most flawless Italian inflection he had. The man was predisposed with a heavy dose of xenophobia that didn’t help matters at all with his rich benefactor. A tidbit learned from his former team mates. They talked a lot with the offer of survival in front of them. Mason really had a terrible eye for henchmen. They were so easily stirred.

 “They told me to watch out for your mouth,” the Italian said, using his mother tongue. His lips curved downwards. “And here I thought they meant your bite.”

By the next cycle they finally learned. The fourth guy sent for guard duty stayed outside the barn, having a smoke, enjoying the distance and lack of chatter.

+++

Alesso sat by the counter in the kitchen raking manic fingers through his hair. Every swipe would have his hand leave with more and more pale strings of hair. A few rooms away their benefactor’s voice was echoing with shrill commands. Mason’s latest whims were cattle prods and branding irons. The first one he never mentioned before that evening and the branding irons he got were unsatisfactory. Gianni was giving him some of the translations as he was making coffee on the stove. Said Mason was asking for custom inscriptions on the irons. Said the yank he was talking to was three seconds away from snapping at the deranged cripple. A blow was heard and someone hit the floor. Mason’s laughter came in a moment’s notice. It would seem some fists were getting paid more than others. Neither of the two men could much imagine anyone being actually loyal to the cripple.

“Gianni,” Alesso’s tone was tense and pale. The fist he had in his hair was gripping. “I think we’re in too deep. This shit is crazy, Gianni. This guy is fucking crazy, that doctor is crazy and we aren—”

“Don’t you fuckin’ say it as well,” Gianni knocked a cup on the table with some force. “I’m tired of fuckin’ hearing it, ok? Mason will pay us.” He poured coffee into the cup and took a quick swing of it, black and unsweetened. Gianni grimaced, his tongue stinging from the heat as the bitter slid down his throat. The taste was terrible as the lie he tried to convince himself of. “And if he doesn’t, well, it’s not like he has legs to run on.”

“I like how you’re avoiding the muscle that came from his ship,” Alesso said with cynicism.

“What, all four of them?”

“Six, Gianni.”

“Whatever. All men bleed the same when you shoot them. We just have to stay ahead of the game.”

“Are we?” Alesso took to pacing around the kitchen to settle his nerves. “I don’t think we are. Who the hell is that doctor guy? And the American with the dog? The fuck did he do to Mason? This prick is a sadist. I’m not sure any of the stories he sold us are true. We have no real idea who we’re dealing with or what even is going on!”

“Caged animals, that’s what we’re dealing with,” Gianni took another swing of coffee. “Neutralized threats. Let him have his fun, if that’s what he wants to call it. I don’t give a shit really. I just know what was promised to us and if I don’t see it—”

The echo of a gunshot was heard from outside. A moment later, two Americans, one with a black eye, rushed through the kitchen and out the patio to inspect. Gianni and Alesso shared a look and decided not to intervene. They went outside, just for Mason’s show, but they didn’t follow towards the woods where the shot was heard.

“If we’re lucky they’ll lose a head or two. Let them go do their job,” Gianni said as he watched one more rush out the house. “Ours is over. And it’s time we get paid.” 

+++

Two men dragged Will into the house kicking and screaming. He was relentless, squirming and thrashing like a wild animal and they couldn’t even tie his hands without knocking him down against the counter. They took off his coat and one of the men held him firmly while the other tied loops over his wrists. Mason was there with one of his doctors, observing with a peculiar glint of thrill in his eyes.

“Well, well. What do we have here? Missed us already, eh Mr. Graham?” Mason couldn’t contain the joy in his voice. “How wonderful this is! We didn’t even have to spend days looking for you. So, what’s brought you back?”

Will stopped thrashing for a moment to raise his head off the counter. His breath was laborious and deep from all the violent writhing. The glare Will aimed at the bemused man was cutting with hate and volatile anger Mason hadn’t seen in him yet, a wild thing driven with grief and resentment.

“You don’t deserve it, you don’t fucking deserve to end him you whiny little rich cunt,” Will hissed, nostrils flaring as he tried to shake the hands holding him down again. “The fuck do you think I’m here for!?”

“Ooohhh!” Mason’s exclaim was filled with even more cheer. “Oh this is going to be good, we’re going to have so much fun all of us together. Might consider toning down your hate Mr. Graham, it’ll give you heartburn. Just ask Margot; that little viper lives with a belly full of acid and look what good it got her!”

Will growled loudly throwing another look at him as well as spit and a handful of mangled insults that proclaimed Mason undeserving of the execution he prepared for Doctor Lecter.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Mason poignantly ignored all of his vitriol as his own private doctor wiped the spit off his suit with a paper towel. “Where’s your mutt, though? There’s a lovely assortment of flaying knives I brought with me and I just couldn’t think of a better candidate for a test drive.”

They raised Will off the counter. He had his eyes tightly squeezed.

“No, I suppose your dagos didn’t tell you about that, did they? Would have knocked a number off their pay check.” Mason hummed curiously at Will’s words. “You witless little shit, do I have to spell everything out for you!?”

Will lashed out a final time before the men clocked him over the head enough to move the earth from his feet. He managed to do the same with the jolt that surprised his captors and a kick to the side of Mason’s wheelchair. His doctor didn’t manage to stop the heavy machinery as it tumbled over, on his feet even. Mason, on the other hand, couldn’t stop him most honest giggling yet, even with his limp body sprawled against the floor.

“Make sure you put him in Lecter’s cage, and don’t knock him out!” Mason called out as his men dragged Will off, a lot less sure on his feet but no less angry. The idea was awfully amusing; he wondered what would happen. “Also do something about that potty mouth of his!”

+++

Hannibal held a devilish smile on his face. He didn’t move a muscle other than his eyes, even as the cage he was in rumbled from the vigorous kicking. The odd limp in Will’s right leg made the act a little troubling but mostly just amusing. He fought with everything he had in him not to get into that cage. From panicked grunts, to digging his heels into dirt. He couldn’t give proper voice to his objections due to the cloth gag pushed between his teeth, and there were certainly some pleas behind the muffled words.

Still, it was three men against one, and bending him over and showing him in the cramped space was not a problem when they got him close enough. Will shuffled as far away as he could from his cell mate, which wasn’t a lot.

“Don’t kill each other until Mr. Verger shows up,” one of the men commented, but there was little concern in his voice that said he’d do anything about it if things got out of hands.

They left the barn as soon as they secured the lock. One remained outside, watch duty, twiddling with his phone. No more than a moment passed when all heads turned from them and Hannibal dropped the amused grin for something a lot more stern and disciplinary. Will, on the other hand, relaxed significantly and tried to find some footing or a good position to rest his back against. He moved a lot more sluggish from the lively fight he played for his captors.

“You best be here with a reason, otherwise you made this a lot worse for the both of us.”

The pitch of muffled noise that left the younger man was tinged with arrogance. He settled himself on the other side of the cage facing Hannibal.

“I freight to ask how many drugs you swallowed for this to work,” Hannibal said with disapproval knitting his brows. He could already smell a torn stitch, or he assumed he would if the ghastly stench of pigs didn’t obstruct him. “It says four a day, but that implies you take them as such throughout the day, not all at once.”

Will responded with something that might be considered words again if there wasn’t a gag in his mouth. He huffed disappointed through his nose. The gag wasn’t going to move itself so Will took to working his jaw and tongue to push the cloth off. It was fastened rather tightly around his head.

“Would you like some help with that?”

Hannibal’s offer was quickly affirmed with a nod. He did Will the curtsey of shuffling over to his side of the cage, but Will found the straddling a tad excessive. Then again, he wasn’t sure what the man was trying to achieve; it was just cloth, a little pull with his teeth from the side would do the trick. Probably.

“Open wide,” he told Will, and again “wider,” when he wasn’t satisfied.

The commandeering timber of his voice woke something in Will. A memory that could hardly be considered old but it felt like it belonged to another time and another life where one thing led to another after cosy candle lit dinners.

Warm breath against his lips recoil him out of the memory and back against the iron bars. Not quite what Will had in mind when he asked for assistance, not the lips pressing against his or the tongue squirming under the gag. There was a moment where no air could reach his lungs, where the intrusively strange kiss cut him off breath for a sweet second. And that’s about as long as it lasted before the very deliberate exchange, affectionate even, turned into the help he asked. Hannibal sunk his teeth into the cloth and tugged until it slid over Will’s lips and dangled soggy with spit around his neck.

“It  _is_ good to see you,” Hannibal said with a straight-faced look that stood in awkward juxtaposition with Will’s perplexity. Not an ounce of shame on him. And why would there be; two birds with one stone. Awfully convenient trade.

Will huffed a laugh out and said “I got you something.” A twitch of a smile pulled at the corner of his lips as he shuffled around with his feet. Hannibal shifted back into his original position, eyeing the door of the barn. Nothing alarming showed on his face.

He watched Will trying to get his feet in some desirable position. The cage wasn’t long enough to allow either to stretch their legs, even when they sat with their backs properly resting against the bars. But Will did manage to do what he set out, which was to take off his right shoe. Hannibal noticed the limp in it, thought it a new wound that needed fixing. He was mistaken, though. It was no injury that gave Will’s leg an odd hitch, but a small little thing of metal and plastic that must have lodged itself somewhere uncomfortable during the hustle.

“You didn’t really expect me to come here empty handed, did you?” Will flashed him a sharp smile.

“I’d never,” Hannibal said awfully amused, as he turned his torso to grab the small pocket knife with his tied up hands.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10, feat. Mason winning the worst employer of the year award and some kinky fuckery.

It wouldn’t be a day on Elba without the familiar sound of rolling thunder in the distance. Another promise of rain, and this one might just be considered favourable instead of an annoyance.

“Truly dreadful weather,” Hannibal commented when the following roar cracked like a whip across the sky.

Will just hummed in agreement, eyes lolling shut. The endorphins did their work and got him through Mason’s hands under false presumptions. Now he was just weary and heavy with exhaustion from all the work, but also incredibly serene. Strange to be so calm in this moment, no less dire then the previous, hardly any less dangerous, but he was. Certainly not careless, no, thoughts of what would come pricked at his mind but did very little to make him any less calm. Hard not to be in Hannibal’s presence; he never failed to exude tranquillity and assurance in even unfavourable circumstances. It rolled off him in waves and Will just soaked it up, resting against the bars and allowing his vision to darken just a little. The hum of fluorescent lights was just the right pitch to send someone to slumber, but that calm Will was not.

He did allow his eyes to hang half open, gaze distant and hardly present in this world. The barely audible sound droplets made as they fell against the tin roof of the barn spilled into the sound of a stream in his ears. The smell of autumn leaves reached his senses and Will didn’t dare to close his eyes then; he was still uncomfortable with the new shape his sanctuary took and refused to shed. Cold and dark yet no less his own. He knew better by now then to think of it as an infection or disease. The change was permanent and it would take getting used to. A lot of things would take getting used to if this night passed favourably.

He spoke then, grounding himself to reality before any dream could snatch him.

“Are you done? I’m surprised we’re left alone this long to be honest,” Will droned, even if the concept of time was a little lost on him.

“Almost,” Hannibal’s eyes had been locked on the door of the barn since he started working the little knife. His shoulders barely moved through his task and nor did he ever blink. “Work on your wakefulness, you’ll need it. And we should also put that gag back in its place.”

 _We_ , he said, as if Will had any way to assist in that endeavour. A smile passed between them; one more languid and the other more reserved but neither any less sincere than the other. And Will couldn’t help feel even more calm, even as every gut instinct told him otherwise.

The white-hot storm coming their way was terribly unpredictable. Will shook his head awake when the sound of hooves started beating against the cage. _Not now, not now._ It was time to concentrate when the knife passed awkwardly into his bound hands.

 _Sleep when you’re dead, or alternatively, when everyone else is._ Funny how that thought didn’t make him shiver. Must have been all that calm.

+++

They may have spared themselves stray bullets in the night, but when the posse came back with a familiar trespasser in tow, the two Italians were tasked with assisting the injured. None dead, Gianni noted with dissatisfaction, but they were in no working condition. One more so than the other.

One of the two got shot in the leg, no exit wounds, terribly bloody situation. Mason’s doctor sighed and busied himself as if it were a chore. The other was grazed with a bullet on his thigh; nothing particularly deep but he did limp. The doctor offered him a stock answer that amounted to _ok_ after glancing at it, threw him a clean towel and gave him a shot of morphine. Gianni would have rather if _Mr. Graze_ had gone with _Mr. Leg_ and the doctor in the other room but he wasn’t going to let that tiny setback stop him from engaging his employer.

“Mason, we need to talk about payment,” Gianni jumped straight to the point. No fluff, no sugar-coating. Alesso stood back, leaning against the wall and trying his best not to look unnerved. Mr. Graze seemed more interested in the pressure he was applying to his injured leg than any of their chatter.

“Oh yes, oh yes we do! I’m glad you brought it up.” Mason sounded too animated for such a conversation. It made Gianni suspicious and with good reason; his following words were all but a good sign.

“Care to tell me anything about the dog, hmm?” Gianni looked confused so Mason humoured him with clarification, “Curly’s dog... Mr. Graham, the guy who just shot two overpaid fools. Anything you’d like to share about his pet?”

Mason was still met with a bewildered stare from the Italian.

“I’m being generous here, I’m offering. Fess up now and you may actually see a cent or two drop your way.”

“Fess up? Fess up what?!”

“See, this is why you’re getting nothing at the end of the day. What did I tell you about the dog, hmm? Hurt it but don’t kill it. And now you’ve robed me of entertainment. I’m sorry Giovanno but you did not do your job right.”

Not only did Mason say, let alone pronounce his name incorrectly, but he also splashed those words into Gianni’s face with an incredible amount of superiority. Gianni connected the dots after a long moment of silence through which Mason almost left the room, utterly unperturbed and giving so little of a shit it spiked Gianni’s blood pressure with alarming haste.

“You can’t be serious!” Gianni slammed a fist on the table dividing him and his unsatisfied benefactor. The American nursing his leg took noticed and made sure to point out he still had a gun on him and could use it.

“He picked us off like flies but _we_ found you your damn doctor, not your Americans! And now you’re telling me you’re gonna take a prisoner’s word over mine? I don’t know what the fuck happened to his dog, that little shit was alive last I saw it. He’s fuckin’ lying!”

“I don’t know about that, Giovanno—”

“Gianni!”

“Gino, whatever. All I know is that Mr. Graham was awfully convincing for a man who lost a pet. You know I lost a pet too once. It made me very sad. It didn’t die though, it just rebelled against me but that’s beside the point. It made me very sad and angry, and that is the point. Mr. Graham was awfully angry and bitter considering the attachment he had to the mutt. And you Gino—”

“Gianni,” the man snarled this time.

“ _Si_ , _si_ , Gianetto, whatever your name is, look. You’re a man with very itchy palms, _capiche_? You’ve got _a-big appetito_ , yes? And frankly I can respect that, but not when it undermines my direct orders. You played too fast and too loose and now you’re stuck with nada.”

Gianni was furious, eyes burning holes through the cripple’s skull. He was seconds away from lunging over the table. Alesso felt the need to step in and pull Gianni back when the American gave up tending to his wound to properly grab his gun with all the intentions of shooting.

“Oh come on now, don’t get so discouraged by your own incompetency. The night’s still young,” Mason added with a chuckle when he noticed the tension flare. “And as you know, I’m a man most generous. There could still be use for you.”

The idea Mason had rolling through his mind was more in line of making them appetizers before the main course, but they didn’t need to know that tiny little detail. His doctor returned with his medical bag, rolled up sleeves and horrid splashes of blood against his shirt. The man didn’t seem much bothered by it and his professional diagnose for the patient in the other room was a heartless shrug.

“C’mon sourpuss, chin up! We can find you and your buddy something interesting to do in the barn. You may still see a penny from me yet!”

Mason’s wheels turned towards the sliding door leading out to the patio. His doctor stepped in front of him and opened them, only to follow after Mason as soon as he was out. His American watchdog did the same, albeit a little dazed and with a stagger.

Alesso didn’t understand many words of English, but he gathered enough.

“There is no way this can be good for us,” he said. “You’ve got the keys to the car, yes? C’mon man, let’s get out of here. We didn’t get much, but-but we can’t say we didn’t get anything.”

Had Gianni not been the keeper of the keys to the car, Alesso would have been gone on his own. Instead he reluctantly followed the man seething with anger out the house and towards the barn.

+++

A light drizzle had started when Mason set on his merry little course. It didn’t bother him but it sure made his doctor run wildly in and out for an umbrella. He didn’t care. He didn’t care that his wheels got muddy and slowed considerably as he rode over moist dirt and grass. Didn’t heed his doctor’s please to slow down. No, no. No slowing down. Tonight was the night! Most of the piece of his plan finally fell together, all the important ones at least. His hunt, and plan, was a rush job all things considered. But who could possibly wait and cultivate hate and madness until the moment was right and certainly a lot less undisturbed? Not Mason, that’s who.

“How are we doing this fine evening, boys?” Mason steamrolled with such a rushing enthusiasm through the barn door, he ran over the guard’s foot. The man yelped with curses and pain but Mason didn’t even spare him a glance or an apology.

Everything he cared about was sitting in that cage, staring back at him with a fraction of a smile so placid it had to have been forced.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Mason said with his eyes on the back of Graham’s head this time. He had scooted as far away as he physically could from Lecter. “It’s going to be a long night and we have so-so-so many things ahead of us. All fun I assure you, though maybe not for everyone.”

Such a shame about the dog. Mason would have loved to see the profiler cry his eyes out in earnest. The thought of feeding him the remains of his pet was now, alas, only a desire left unfulfilled. But the thought stuck with him and he remodelled it into something rather interesting. Graham was really just an appetizer in this game. Who really mattered to Mason was the other guy.

“How very droll,” Hannibal said with a glance thrown towards the maze of steel. The swine in it wereslowly but surely getting more agitated with the new additions of sound. “This didn’t quite work in your favour the first time. What makes you think this time will be different?”

“Oh I think circumstances are considerably more in my favour, _dottore_.”

Mason’s doctor tried to clean the mud off the wheels of his chair, but Mason kept fucking with his controls and obstructing his efforts. It’s when he almost crushed his fingers that the doctor retracted for good and let Mason play in full.

“Listen here Hannibal. Can I call you Hannibal? Hannibal. Listen.” Mason wasn’t expecting him to offer an answer nor was he willing to take one. When the steamroller started, it’s a hard thing to stop. He may have been a man locked in a wheelchair but he used the machinery’s potential to look as lively and as agile as everyone else. The rough but solid ground of the barn only aided in the way he glided around, left and right, while he delivered his speech with a tone of vicious cheer.

“You’re an interesting man and it’s a shame, it’s such a damned shame we have to resort to this barbarism. Wouldn’t you agree? Of course you would. We’re civilised adults, and as such we can surely admit that we kind of got off on the wrong foot. But let it not be said that Mason Verger is not an honourable man! I can be persuaded, I really can. All it takes is some good will on both my part and yours.

“I’ve felt great potential in a partnership between us since day one you see, and as such I’m willing to extend an olive branch. Whether that branch gets you a quick and easy death or actual freedom depends entirely on you. More importantly it depends how much I am entertained by your performance. And what I want is, well, very simple.”

Mason dropped his voice to an even tone, almost business-like.

“I want you to eat the dog, Hannibal. I want you to eat him, right here, right now, right in this cage. Make it a show! You’ve got an audience and it’s a fairly critical one, if I dare say so myself.”

Gianni and Alesso stood close to the exit, taking in Mason’s one sided conversation with downright disgust. Now there was shit neither wanted to ever see. They only had suspicions what the pigs were for and they felt very confirmed after hearing that. His four American watchdogs didn’t even blink at the command. Mason’s private doctor dropped a snort, as if he just heard a joke.

Mason managed to contain his joyous laughter within him as he observed the reaction in the esteemed doctor. He didn’t look much esteemed stuck in that cage though; a bit ruffled with his nose a little crooked and bloody. But the exterior rarely matched the interior with this man, if his most untroubled expression was anything to go by. Almost a thing to envy.

Lecter’s eyes turned with a lazy crawl from Mason to Graham and back to Mason. And the dog lover, oh he was just precious; visibly tense and skirting as much as he could away from the doctor. It wasn’t much; the cage didn’t allow them room, but it didn’t stop Graham from trying to liquefy through the bars. Alas, reality was stubborn and would allow no such blessing.

“I don’t suppose I could ask for any silverware?” Lecter’s face turned a touch sour, as if the most appalling thing Mason could ask of him was to eat without a plate. And perhaps to a man like him that truly was appalling. Mason could not contain his amusement this time.

“Oh trust me, it’d love to see what you could do to a man with a butter knife and a fork, but I don’t think that’s a good idea, liberating your hands and all. It kind of ruins the fun, too. I mean, why go down such a boring path when you’ve clearly demonstrated already that you possess some very sharp tools of your own. Heck, you don’t even need hands!”

Mason drove his wheelchair closer to the cage, a little too close for comfort but neither of the men in it had hands free to make it a risk. “I am willing to extend a tiny bit of help. All for a good show, yes? I like a nice view. You there!”

He called for one of the Americans, told him to use the taser on low. A dessert before the main course was watching Graham handle the news all together. He wanted to scurry away from the bars but that’d mean getting close to Lecter. His inability to pick the lesser of two misfortunes left him with a pleading mewl and a shaking head. He squeezed his eyes shut in some improbable hope his problems would disappear, but they didn’t. The taser drew a sharp screech from him before his body went limp against the bars with an occasional spasm, head lolled on one side.

“In a perfect world,” Mason allows himself to extend the overture of his speech for just a little more, “I would have starved the two of you in that cage until something interesting would happen. Unfortunately, my patience runs thin these days. So then, Hannibal if you would please take the stage. Entertain us. Eat the dog. Make it a show. Make it enjoyable. Entertain _me._ ”

“You specifically?” Hannibal pondered, amused. “Well, when you ask so nicely...”

The blue of Mason’s eyes glistened with want for spectacle. He barely allowed himself a blink as Lecter took his uncomfortable position over the slumped frame of the profiler. His eyes traced the man, looking for an adequate place to begin the banquet. He settled for the throat; an easy choice, simple, it offered a good view. The mess would be immense and the smell of blood would get the blood pumping in his little pets. The screams would aid as well. Mason wondered what Lecter would go for first. The jugular? No no, can’t be, would kill too quickly. That’s not how you do a show.

Lecter’s teeth worked to pull the shirt loose around the shoulder, to expose the side of Graham’s neck, the taut line where it and shoulder met. That’s where he decided to bite. And Mason had expected, _wanted_ something ravenous, a beast in the flesh of a man just ready to let loose. Mason had wanted to _see,_ to witness The Chesapeake Ripper in all of his depraved glory. A true hunger mingled with desperation and washed with subtle humiliation. Mason wanted all of that, all the good stuff, but got nothing like it at all.

The bite broke skin but it could hardly be considered cruel, instead tender and succulent. Red stained the doctor’s lips, mingled with the white of his teeth, but there was barely anything inhuman about his actions. In fact it was too human. The only sound that left Graham was a sharp inhale and any sign of desperate thrashing veered straight into the territory of shivers. Lecter sucked the blood off the wounds and proceeded to lap his tongue over the bite with exquisite care. He did not blink, did not break precious eye contact he had with Mason whose hope for fun all but drowned in the shock behind his eyes. He lapped once more over the bite but this time his tongue wandered along the long line of Will’s neck and up to his earlobe where Hannibal risked a hushed _play along_ before nibbling hard enough on the ear to elicit a groan from the other man.

Will had not a damned clue what Hannibal was on about, but he’d been playing all night and he did not intend to drop the ball no matter how weird it got. It was a life or death situation, after all.

“Are you entertained, Mason? Are you enjoying yourself?” Hannibal marked every question with another soft lick against the bite, gathering beads of red under his palate. Each caress of tongue got punctuated by a soft, strangled noise trying to die down behind the gag.

“Did I misinterpret?” Hannibal sunk another bite at the crook of Will’s neck, wider this time, accentuating the sharp blades of the grin that had been growing with every second Mason stayed silent and stared. The bite, like the other, was a soft and intimate thing. Carnivorous, yes, but in an entirely different manner. It left the kind of mark one would leave on their lovers. A well timed keen reverberated through the throat of its recipient, but it sounded short and strangled, as if an accident let loose.

Will was half faking it, but his choice to raise his voice left him uneasy, as if some grievous faux pass had been committed. Not one to fling dirty laundry in public, that’s for sure. He kind of wished he could see where this was going.

The change of atmosphere did not go unnoticed among the spectators as feet were heard shuffling and bewildering looks got exchanged. Mason still said nothing and hardly blinked himself, baffled by the eyes that locked on to his with unrelenting control. He was certain this wasn’t what he wanted to see, but certainties were unstable when the question of enjoyment jumped out in his mind.

“A little jealous of your stand-in, perhaps?” Hannibal asked, drawing another caress with his tongue over the bites. The lock between their eyes was still a flawlessly undisturbed stream. Tension grew in Mason and it was more a matter of words then actions that would set him off. It only made Hannibal more content, and with it the razor edge of the grin on his face grew.

He switched to peppering kisses, biting and bruising ones, up the length of Will’s neck. He grazed his teeth over the pulse that had marginally quickened and it drew a sound from Will, a low and private one, familiar, just for Hannibal to enjoy.

“Imagining yourself in his stead?” Hannibal took his covetous acts along Will’s jaw and got terribly close to the opportunity to bite at his lips. An enjoyable sport for more than one reason.

“You’d love for a chance to make _papa_ proud, wouldn’t you Mason?” Hannibal curled the younger man’s name out with such a loving grace even Will had to wonder for a fraction of a second if he was serious.

Everyone had a boiling point and Mason had reached his with those last words. The hypnotic workings of Dr. Lecter’s eyes, the silent enjoyment of his performance, all of that went to shit with the uttering of words that made Mason’s skin crawl with desire and disgust in equal measure. His blood, on the other hand, boiled to a point where fun no longer had a meaning and only results were wanted.

 “Get them out of the fucking cage! Get them out NOW!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's some fucked up NTR Hannibal pulled there. I have no excuse for this scene other than _'I wanted it to happen'_ and _'no but Mason totes has a daddy kink, like c'mon, think about it'_.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 11, feat. fun time in the pig pen and a whole lot of dead people.

 

They way they got pulled out of the cage was terribly unkind, but neither expected anything less after what Hannibal had said. Will found himself glad for having the gag, unsure if his stomach injury would be enough to stop him from chuckling out loud. Knees were still unsteady from the electric shock, but he overplayed it and got himself gripped by a single injured man, instead of the two Hannibal got. The guy had the misfortune of Mason run his wheels over his foot, but besides his stagger the grip on Will’s upper arms was going to leave marks. Nothing to brush off.

“It seems we’ve had a miscommunication. Do forgive me Mason, but young folk and your slang... I wasn’t quite sure what you meant with _eat._ ”

Hannibal played it insultingly serious and Mason did not respond with a chuckle, a laugh, or a dismissively colourful retort. The men holding him looked like they were ready to strike him at any moment for his words but Mason gave no such sign or approval. Only when the mobile staircase got clicked into place by none other than his annoyed doctor did Mason speak up.

“Hilarious, Lecter, truly. I hope you laugh as hard while you watch what’s to become of you soon enough.” Mason’s tone low and humourless but he could not keep the petulance from his voice.

On top of the shaky staircase they got ushered through, a flat iron surface was set up, a kind of scaffold that lead across the few rings of the maze and to its centre.

“Won’t you be joining us, Mason?” Hannibal’s captors once again looked like they didn’t know what to do. They settled for kicking his shins until he kneeled down on one leg and grabbed hold of his shoulders. A few steps away the same was done to Will, right at the ledge.

“I’ll be up there when it matters. This show is just for you.”

The hollow centre of the maze was still emptiness and dirt, but for how long was questionable. The swine moved with confusion through the rings and their haste escalated after each new spark of sound. Metal rattled and shook the platform they all stood on. The drop was maybe some ten feet, nothing _too_ serious, but Will wasn’t planning on seeing the bottom off it. He didn’t want to wait any longer, didn’t want to risk the anticipation of the kick, so when he felt the pressure of hands slowly leave him, Will was quick to act. He had one sharp inhale to carry him through, dreading the kick his own gut would give him after a stunt like this. With as much strength he had in himself and his legs, Will stood up from the kneeling position, surprising the man and knocking him backwards with the slam of his torso.

The American cursed and went for his gun, grabbing it by the barrel for some quality pistol-whipping against the rowdy prisoner. It was the surprise when he saw hands free of rope, as if it was barely holding together to begin with, that gave Will a perfect window of opportunity to grab hold of the gun in the man’s hands and pull the trigger.

“What the fuck are you doing up there!?” Mason screeched, “Don’t you dare use guns on him! You know the fucking rules, don’t you dare!”

Just as one of the men disengaged from holding him to assist the commotion, Hannibal sprung free, rising to his feet with all the grace of a lion. The no-gun policy had them all confused as their impulses were to reach for their weapons and yet be unable to use them. The Italians made an immediate retreat from the barn as soon as a shot went off and signs of struggle reared their heads. They ran because they knew, and what they knew the American’s were about to learn.

Mid his rise, Hannibal elbowed the man behind, right in his privates. The sound of him almost eclipsed the roaring gurgle leaving the persistent one Will had just shot. He did not back down, even with such a critical injury to his gut. Will managed to spin their position into his favour, but the guy who had blood pooling in his mouth was relentless and hard to push off. Adrenaline was a mighty thing indeed; even Will could barely feel his own injuries cry with strain.

Hannibal had an easier time getting rid of the man who had his junk kicked in. He turned swiftly and pushed him off the platform. The unfortunate man cracked something wicked on his roll down the staircase and ended up tipping them over. The quickest glance Hannibal had over Mason and the few able bodies he had with him were covered in panic. But a glance was all he could spare; another man was still there requesting Hannibal’s attention with his fist striking at him. Just as he turned ready to dance, cramps be damned, he caught the sight of Will successfully pushing his captor off the ledge. It was unfortunate that the man had a tight grip on Will’s shirt and ended up pulling him as well. The sight that made his eyes widen almost cost Hannibal a fist to the face. Almost.

Will landed on the man that pulled him down, but that did not make the impact any softer. He rolled off immediately on his back and waited for the edges of his vision to stop darkening and for his _everything_ to stop throbbing. Sitting up was a terrible chore but he had to, he had to because _Get up, Will! Get on your feet._ It sure as hell wasn’t his voice yelling at him but Will knew where he had landed and up on his feet he had to be.

He groaned and stumbled on his way, tripped over his own feet and landed with his back against metal, as far away from the man that had just started wailing in pain. _Shut up,_ Will wanted to tell him, kick his teeth in maybe, but he had the words flung off his mind with the passing of a loud grunt behind him. Pigs moved rapidly through the maze and it shook the wall he leaned against. Will rubbed his eyes for focus and looked frantically through the blur in the hope of seeing the entrance they would start pouring from. He was standing far from it, almost diagonally, but between the entrance and him laid a man with nothing but screams on his lips and barely movement in him. Will’s eyes found the gun too late lying by the entrance, just as a sizable swine walked by it and flung it further in with its feet as it made its way towards the source of noise.

“Oh shit,” Will heard himself gasp as he suddenly found the cold rattling wall behind him awfully appealing to push against.

“They’re just animals, Will, just like your dogs,” he heard from above where signs of struggle were still heard and apparent. “Don’t show them f—” the last words got mingled with an insult on a language foreign to him as something akin a blow landed on Hannibal.

Will laughed, nervous, the kind of laugh that left a man stuck on the periphery of imminent doom. A joyless one, a response to fear because weeping sure as hell wasn’t going to help anyone. These pigs were nothing like his dogs, and the one that just showed up made sure to drive that fact home. His dogs may have eaten food of questionable origin, but none of them lunged at a screaming man with maddening vigour and a relish for his tender parts. The swine did not jump at the man’s throat to stop him from screaming, as if it enjoyed it too much. Instead it went for the gushing wound that must have blinded it with allure to everything else. Another one found the entrance to the inner ring and with equal haste got to the screamer, taking on his legs instead. The man was wailing in pain before, but now he knew true agony.

Will was positioned front and centre for their feast; quiet as a mouse with even his breathing cut short but not for lack of trying. Dread gripped his lungs and played his heart like a drum as he watched the beasts tear through the man. Their maws were incredibly strong, ripping clothes and flesh like paper until viscera gushed out of him. The two fought over his intestines for a moment before the bigger one claimed it with vicious headbutts. The other settled again for the legs and continued to gnaw at the bone with alarming success. And through it all, the man still screamed, finding somehow the voice for it even as his small intestines were being pulled out.

There was no way out. There was no way out! The exit was their entrance and the walls of the labyrinth were unclimbable, at least for Will. He had to turn his head away, nausea rising tides of bile from his half-empty stomach. It barely helped; the sound of grunts and squeals were prevailing as the screaming started to die down. The slippery, slimy noise they made while gnawing through organs almost made his throw up. He didn’t need to see; vivid imagination painted pictures of things eyes refused to look at. What a terrible way to go, as someone’s lunch. Something’s lunch. It all came back to dinner tables, or in this case filth covered ground and bloodcurdling screams. If only it was a dinner table. He laughed again, loud and shaken through gritted teeth. Soon the screams would die down entirely, and then what? Would they bore of their meal? What of the others yet to come through the maze? How many seconds did he have before the screams would become his own?

The answers came with another cry, a fresh and new one this time. It snapped Will’s eyes open and he saw a man tumble down, pushed viciously for him to land as close to the entrance as possible, just as some swine made their way in, excited by the new noise. They spared little time to jump on him and make him sing more.

“As I was saying,” the words sounded breathless on Hannibal’s lips. For a moment he looked just as he sounded, just a Will felt; tired and strained, craving some medical attention or at least a comfortable bed. And a moment was all it took for him to exhale the demeanour away and straighten his posture into something very akin his usual self.

“Conditioned animals; show them fear and they will react accordingly. Give them nothing and they won’t even notice you.”

Hannibal was frustratingly calm with his words. Will opened his mouth to respond, yet nothing came from him other that a fractured voice. _Bullshit,_ he wanted to say, _utter bullshit._ These things were eating a man right in front of his eyes. Hannibal’s words sounded like fiction to Will who hadn’t felt a fear shake him this strong in a long time. Ever? Probably.

Stars danced behind his eyelids as he squeezed them in frustration, his mind laying out scenario after scenario from which there was no conceivable escape. His stomach still felt queasy from the sounds of gobbled flesh and the smell of blood made him taste it on the back of his tongue.

“I can’t,” is all he managed and even then he wasn’t sure he said it out loud. Probably whispered.

Some distant, hateful voice told him he had this coming, he deserved it. But Will didn’t want to listen to it, didn’t want to give it power. He opened his eyes with some intention and purpose, some need to get his shit together for a second and see if there was anything he could do. Or at least to find his tongue and tell Hannibal where to find Winston. He didn’t expect anything from the man other than further lectures on fear. He didn’t expect to tell Hannibal anything worthwhile either. Last words – what a bunch of bullshit. A fearful mind wasn’t the best thinker for anything other than begging for a God that wasn’t going to help. Useless. His tongue was useless. But damned if he wouldn’t _try._

Will didn’t get far with any of his intentions after opening his eyes, but at least it wasn’t from horror. Mostly shock. A few swine turned their snouts towards the newcomer picking himself off the ground with elegant haste. For a moment, a beautiful, precious moment, Hannibal had that look on him, that _I’m too old for this shit and my knees hurt_ look. Or maybe Will had imagined – anything was possible. He could hardly believe what he was looking at anyway and he laughed again, hard and breathlessly, the kind of laugh that shook the body but barely made a sound.

 _What the fuck are you doing,_ Will mouthed, no less astounded than he was a moment ago, but Hannibal didn’t dignify him with an answer. The pigs sniffed at Hannibal’s feet and around him and past him, but ultimately turned, bored with the puppet-shape that did not bleed or scream or wobble or fear. It was just as he said, and Will was almost angry with how easy Hannibal made it all look, yet he worried for each step the man took over the crowd.

“W-why did you do that?” Will choked out when Hannibal was closer. He made his way towards him, preoccupied with the swine about as much as they were with him and Will’s worry doubled with each second, compensating for the other’s lack. The only thing Hannibal made more of a point to care for was not to trample over their dinner. The smell of blood was the last thing he wanted sticking to his shoes.

“You look like you could use a hand.”

Will was lightheaded, tingling, like a film of white noise settled over him and crawled over every sensory output he had. Everything felt distant and dull but no less a nightmare because oh god, they were both going to die. What came over Will at the sight of Hannibal stuck in this death trap with him was harrowing, choking, and most importantly _why_?Why, why, why?

And yet, the man look barely distressed, more concerned with Will’s violent shudder then the gravity of their situation.

 _Focus elsewhere._ Hands covered his eyes, warm and large, darkening the view. _Leave this place._ Turning, turning, like a boneless sack of meat until Hannibal was at his back, pulled close like second skin. _Find your quiet. Find a stream._ Hands were over his ears now, blocking out the nauseating noise. Whispers still reached him, told him to take a step, and another and another until he settled into a rhythm. Warm long bodies brushed and moved against his calves with each step. Hands moved to guide, voice still a charming distraction. The orange tint of light behind closed eyes dimmed and an incognizant amount of time passed, something between a moment and infinity. Nothing could seemingly take Will from this trance his senses hid behind, this safety net that pulled over him and allowed guidance. Nothing bar the loud discharge of a handgun and a rough push at his back until Will stumbled under bright lights again and his eyes chose to see.

Fluorescent glow. Dusty ground. Empty space. A cage to the right. Tipped staircase. Broken body. A distant, walled-off gurgle of pain.

Will turned to see Hannibal throw aside a gun and rest his back against the flimsy but closed door of metal, their exit or the entrance to the maze as it were.

They didn’t say a thing to each other; Will didn’t offer thanks and Hannibal didn’t expect it. Instead what Will gave was an embrace that could have been considered crushing if the giver was not still a trembling mess. Clinging and wordless, he hung on like a man to a life raft. The words behind his actions did not go unnoticed with Hannibal. He returned the gesture as soon as he received it, almost as desperate as Will’s yet softer.

“I need to find our host,” he whispered in Will’s ear. “I’d hate for him to leave.”

They disengaged as fast as they came together, with Will’s head turned away and hands slow to slide off Hannibal. He left quickly with a last request for Will to stay put and rest. And Will did that. He closed his eyes and counted, very slowly and with a meditative breath. An old exercise he hadn’t used in ages. He counted until he felt like himself again, cleared of fog on his mind and fear in his heart. Cleared of the stench of imminent death. He counted until the gales of blood and noise in his ears subsided and the hum of fluorescent lights welcomed him instead. Seven marked the last exhale when his eyes opened with a satisfied level of stillness inside him.

Will slipped carefully out of the barn and skirted against the building until he reached its back. He whistled as loud as he could and waited for Winston to gallop through the trees and towards him. It took Winston a solid minute to find his master in the darkness and Will only noticed him when another flash of lightning illuminated the sky.

“Good boy,” he scratched the dog’s head and took the gun he held between his teeth. The safety was on. Of course it was. He had checked it five times before he let Winston bite down on it.

Will clicked his tongue and pointed on a dry spot behind the barn for Winston to stay put.

+++

 “Please, Gianni, please hurry with the keys!”

Alesso tapped nervous fingers against the roof of their car. The two of them were the first to get out when things took a slight turn for the worse, all under Alesso’s persuasion. And Gianni was adamant, for a good minute, to leave before problems that weren’t their ended up blowing up in their face. He had to catch it though, he had to catch the shrill voice of their employer as his doctor rushed him across the field and into the house. Their only guard was that same staggering man that barely missed a bullet.

“No. No, no, no! Gianni for fuck’s sakes!” He grabbed the man before he could leave for the house but Gianni was in no joking mood. He slammed Alesso back against the car and tapped the barrel of his gun against his head.

“You can stay here and cower for all I care. I’m going back in there to get what’s mine and then we can leave.”

Alesso slid down on the ground, watched him leave and regretted never learning how to hotwire a car. His criminal record wasn’t as prolific, and honestly this was supposed to be the last one. He had said that about his last two jobs but this one, oh god this one, nothing he ever did was quite as fucked up as this one. He tapped the wallet in his pocket, gripping the leather through his slacks but he didn’t take it out. He wanted to see the images, just in case. Just in case he—

No. He took the gun out of his holster and huddled it by his chest.

“He’ll be back soon...” He said unconvincingly.

+++

“Useless fucking mongoloids, all of you!” Mason was inconsolable with rage and vitriol. How could everything go so wrong in so little time? There was something wicked going on between his pray. How could he let them play him again?

His doctor parked him in the master bedroom where most of their stuff still stood unpacked. It also housed more firearms. The doctor took a handgun and his watchdog grabbed the tranquilizer gun.

“Kill everyone if you have to, I don’t care, but you know damn well you won’t see a penny if Lecter’s dead!”

“Stay here Mr. Verger,” he said when he heard a loud whistle. “And you doc, shoot whatever comes through that door.” The watchdog set to head out and opened the door to find Gianni. Visibly relieved, he ushered him in and told him to keep the master safe.

Gianni nodded, silent, and closed the lock on the bedroom door. He waited and waited until he was sure the watchdog was far enough away. Mason continued to grumble and complain and his ire was set on his doctor and the fire arm he held. They argued and argued and Gianni had to bite his tongue and dig nails into his palms to stop himself from raging out prematurely.

And then he couldn’t anymore. He turned and without warning shot the doctor, point blank. He was so beyond ransoms or even talking to Mason that he just opened the closet door and pushed the cripple’s wheelchair inside. He ripped the control panel of his apparatus and slammed the door shut. By now the screeching, the curses, the prolific profanity of Mason’s words were sweet songs of success. Killing people of high status never paid out for Gianni so might as well leave him to that crazy doctor. They clearly had a fucked up history.

Gianni grabbed hold of the luggage Mason came with, two large satin-covered suitcases and his glamorous white coat. The doctor’s medical bag he left. Useless. No money in there, only meds and needles and shit. With haste he made it out of the house and to the car where Alesso was crouching. He saw the man get up with tentative relief but it soon fell to shock. There was a warning on his face before his words could react but Gianni didn’t see it, or hear it.

That was Gianni’s problem – greed. All of his hands were occupied with things that would get him some cash, maybe even some actual cash inside and designer goods to sell. He really didn’t want to leave this shithole empty handed and now his hands were overwhelmed. He should have rearranged the goods in his hands or left one hand free for the gun. But greed compelled and he was more than certain in his speed and haste.

The first shot missed him by a hare and right then and there he had the opportunity to turn and use his gun, but first he’d have to drop some luggage and reach for the holster. Which he did, and it was too slow. The second shot got him in the shoulder and then Gianni dropped everything he held, including the gun. He turned before the third one could reach him if for nothing else then to see who it was.

Will shot him through the head when their eyes met.

He saw the other Italian then, by the car, terror on his face and in his trembling hands. The gun he held slipped from his fingers and face went pale with dread. Will stepped over Gianni to get a closer look at Alesso, gun still pointed at him. He didn’t much remember anyone from that merry band of assholes beyond the man who kicked his dog and the man who told him to kick his dog.

Will gave him a good look over. _Run_ , his lips ghost and he jerked his head and the gun in his hand in a shooing motion. The man didn’t need a repeat of gestures or a translation; he turned and ran like the devil was chasing him. When he dared to slow for a fraction and turn his head, Will fired several shots in his vague direction, not very concerned with hitting him. And considering the man’s speed picked up, he assumed he didn’t.

With the man out of his sight, Will turned and gave one last scoffing look at Gianni’s bleeding corpse. He really didn’t like that guy.

+++

Hannibal didn’t know the layout of the house and neither did the man with the gun, but being quiet in a hunt was his speciality. He grabbed a knife in the kitchen as he passed through and jammed it, seven times, through the watchdog’s kidneys. One last clean slice across his throat and he was left to bleed in one of the hallways, voiceless.

Searching for Mason brought him passing by the kitchen once again. As Hannibal came into view on the doorway, both men recoiled for a moment before recognition clicked. But Will didn’t lower his gun and he even smiled. Hannibal looked at him with slight apprehension.

“Will,” he didn’t have to voice his concerns further than the uttering of his name. Hannibal’s eyes narrowed at the gun in his hands.

A warm, bright burning persisted in Will’s chest. He wanted it, craved it immensely from the moment he had his life saved in the barn. Probably even before that. Probably always wanted it but never let it flourish out of the haze of guilt and hate into solid thought. But he didn’t know how to get it, didn’t know if it was even possible. Happiness was still such a foreign word on his tongue.

“Do you think,” Will risked squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, a briefest rest for the mind speeding to fast to draw conclusions, to shine light on answers. He heard the floorboard creak barely and opened his eyes again.

“Be honest; do you think we’ll ever be even?”

He held the gun steady and pointed at Hannibal. The man did not attempt to move from the barrel’s sight. He could have, so close to the door, he could. But he stood there, expression as thoughtful as it was tired, and he gave Will an answer. The perfect moment for silver-tongued antics yet Hannibal offered a simple word. The same uncertain one that lay on the forefront of Will’s mind.

“Maybe.”

A chance had to be given – there wasn’t another way to get an answer for a question as complex as that. And Will found himself willing, too willing and only slightly upset by it. He squeezed his eyes again and this time no creak of floorboards was there to nudge him out of the thought that compelled him. _Quid pro quo._

“Do you still want my forgiveness?” Strange to talk about forgiveness when the one he owed himself was yet to come. It probably never fully would, but at least he felt he could live with it. Will opened his eyes when something heavy with death huffed an exhausted breath. The warm gust reached his fingers wrapped around the gun.

“Are you willing to offer it?” A question for a question, both entirely honest.

Will looked up and met black eyes begging for an end. Leaving it to suffer any longer would be unimaginable cruelty. The black stag’s head, bloodied and tilting with laborious breath, pushed against the barrel of his gun and waited. Will looked it over with pity and answered in the only way he could. A terrible thing this burden of understanding, and they shared it both. It could never give them an easy answer. There wasn’t one. Only possibilities. Only chances.

“Maybe.”

Will pulled the trigger, burned the entries of his diary until there was nothing left but blank pages. What was had no room here anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more to go!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 12, feat. conclusions and ramifications, a couch on fire and food.

Will looked at the gun in his hand with frustration, turned it over a few times like it was a foreign object, and lately it had felt like that. He didn’t remember a time when he didn’t work with a firearm yet here he was, staring at it like he had just lost faith in a friend.

“I’m just not good with guns anymore,” he aimed a look of disappointment at the damage his shot left.

The bullet dug itself a hole in the hallway behind Hannibal and in its wake left a sleeve soaked in blood. Only a graze, but the fleck of red spread so quickly that it couldn’t have been a shallow cut. Hannibal understood why, he really did. He looked over the damage with a doctor’s eye – probable target was the shoulder, tissue damage substantial, could leave a scar, should get treated for blood loss. A soundless hiss crossed his face when he grazed the injury with his fingers but didn’t do anything else.

Hannibal understood why, but understanding did not mean condoning. He turned his head towards Will in his penchant ways, slow and graceful, dangerous. His eyes glared heat his face tried to hide. An aggravation barely subdued in his movement towards Will, large steppes lacking in urgency but frightful in poise. Hannibal’s understanding did not mean condoning and it opened doors to a quiet anger.

Will saw him move, saw him make way towards him, but he still cradled the gun inoffensively and looked right through him, blank and unreadable. He started backing up with a matching stride when Hannibal got too close, when he wrapped a tight grip around the writs that held the gun and in turn Will clutched the bleeding shoulder. Will hissed when his back slammed the wall, as did Hannibal when the grip tightened around his fresh injury, stopping the blood loss with its pressure but being no less cruel about it. The snarl was painfully slow to leave Hannibal’s face this time around.

Will’s wrist was pinned to the wall and well-trimmed nails needlessly dug crescent into his skin. He did not fight back, in fact he contemplated dropping the gun all together. It’s not like there were any more bullets in it. It’s not like he even wanted to use it again to begin with.

“Look at you getting angry over a little flesh wound,” Will snarled, tense and threatening with teeth bared and an in-your-face attitude. “You disserve worse, you disserve a shot through the head.”

He moved the hand that clutched Hannibal’s wound and pressed a bloodied finger to the man’s forehead. _Right here_ , he mouthed and a sound moment was all it took for Will’s demeanour to soften in both his eyes and flesh. The finger slid down Hannibal’s forehead, over his nose and stopped with a gentile press of red stains against his lips. Will retracted his hand back to the injury once more but the grip was kinder in touch.

“And so do I,” Will’s shoulders slacked back against the wall. He gave a playful tilt to his head and a smile gently sombre. “I don’t have the right to deliver this kind of punishment. I don’t have the _want_ for it anymore.”

Hannibal was quiet and still with anger but it was far, far from hateful, and the incitement in Will’s behaviour did not escape him, or the way his voice curved around a certain word. He wasn’t one to respond to baiting, it was his least favourite thing to do. But some baits presented themselves so nicely, it was hard to refuse them the courtesy.

“The Italians?” Hannibal asked, having already accounted for all the Americans as broken, eaten or slashed.

“Dealt with. Saw the doctor shot in a room I just passed by. No idea where Mason is.”

“A man in his condition could not be far.”

“It’s starting to rain pretty heavily out there, I doubt—”

Will silenced when a taste sanguine covered his lips. His admission was eager and quick to part lips and teeth for the intrusion. When the gun dropped gracelessly from his already feeble grip, hands shifted and bodies slid away from the wall, through the doorway and into an austere living room where a dusty couch waited. Will stumbled with his balance when the armrest hit the back of his legs, but he pulled with him the man that led him there with guiding hands at his hips, just like before. Bodies tangled and limbs rearranged and neither could pass the settling against the soft plush without a moan of pain for their injuries. Springs creaked as Hannibal forced his way to comfort between Will’s legs, a place the other relinquished after some fight and a row of kisses along a jaw usually smooth but now showing the barest signs of scruff that made Will’s lips tingle.

Where he had left marks before was a clear place of interest for Hannibal who didn’t return to claim lips, instead trailing sharp kisses of teeth and tongue along the neckline. Will took undisturbed enjoyment in it this time, lifting hips to meet the other in undulating movements of frustration for all the layers between them. Thinking was beyond them at this point where wanton urges took hold and old flames rekindled after a long day of games. Will’s nails were not trimmed and proper, so when Hannibal left a new mark on his neck that drove out viciously pleasant sounds from both, Will could feel the flesh on Hannibal’s back warm and tearing even through the fabric over which his nails raked.

Hannibal moved his lips from the too abused flesh and over the cheek where coarse hair scraped against his jaw. He focused on driving their hips together, where the heat was building into something unbearable and Will’s voice into something more unsated. If he had to be incited into beginning this, he was going to make sure Will at least put his hands to good use, if not some other parts of him. When their lips found each other again, when the kiss they shared turned them both a few degrees warmer with its lack of urgency and softy exchanged sighs; that was when Will slid his hand between their tightly pressed bodies and clutched around Hannibal’s belt.

He was relentless to take it apart with one hand, unwilling to remove the other from its place where it was coated in crimson. His uneven grip could hardly help anymore; Hannibal felt tingling in his arm, saw in the corner of his sight the mural or red he left on the backrest. But Will endured on with his one-handed work and Hannibal persisted with his grinding and the kiss lingered until it morphed into bites and gentile nibbling. The sound was one of a kind and music to Will’s ears when he heard it, when his hand slid through loosened fabric and wrapped around the hard and throbbing cock separated still by the thinnest fabric that almost melted in the heat of their touch. Will’s slacks were a lot easier to get through, beltless.

To say he was in ecstasy would be an overstatement, but he had missed it, oh he missed it greatly thinking he’d never have it again. The sound of Will breathless with pleasure that slipped into pain under certain angles, body boneless and willing to crash against, a firm grip sliding over them both as they slid against each other. At first their rhythm had a semblance of order but it soon slipped in the chaos of maddening desire. Will spared him no warning in the way he bit down on his shoulder, as if using it to try and silence the oscillating sounds leaving his throat. Hannibal slid his good hand over Will’s thigh, sliding under with deft finger and firmly squeezing his ass, coaxing more sound off him the same way the other did with a feather light graze of nails over his cock.

It was when the couch started feeling like it may catch on fire, when Hannibal could barely feel his bleeding hand and when Will’s pleasant sounds turned most definitely painful. That was when time started to make sense again, when speed dwindled and their mouth found each other one last time in something that was a pleasant exchange of air, not a kiss. Will squeezed over them and the last remaining drops of lust emptied in his hand.

The smell of their release was overpowering, from skin and sweat to the white in Will’s hand. Hannibal savoured every bit of it, every sound they shared and every drop of sweat that tangled in Will’s curls where his nose was buried. He packed it all and closed behind tightly sealed doors, just in case this was finite, just in case there was an expiration date to their reunion. One could never tell. They were resting against each other, one draped over another, catching breath and sanity while waiting for their aches to become unbearable. Will was first to speak after dragging his hand from under them and wiping off the come on the side of the couch. He draped that hand over Hannibal’s back and turned his head, nuzzling his ear in the process. They were both so drenched, thin fabrics sticking uncomfortably on heaving chests that slowly found a calm tempo again.

“The doctor left his bag in that room, two doors down,” Will whispered. “You should go look for something,” he gave a light squeeze to the bleeding injury he was still gripping over, “maybe some painkillers too...”

When Hannibal raised his head over Will’s, messy hair and swollen lips none withstanding, he had such clarity to his eyes that Will could almost lose himself in those warm maroon colours.

“Of course,” came the reply and a blink quickly dispelled Will’s drowning. Hannibal left the briefest peck on his barely parted lips before getting up.

+++

Hannibal was in no mood for a rest with so many bodies lying around the property. Will just wanted to eat something and crawl under a mattress for a few days. He got promised a hot dish if he’d make himself useful. The thought of shovelling under mild opiates was terribly unappealing to Will, but his frights were quickly dispelled.

“Goodness Will,” Hannibal said, stepping outside with an umbrella he found by the door. “Why would we do any digging if there is a barn full of man-eating swine?” The question was rhetorical.

Winston had been waiting on the other side of the glass door and as soon as they slid open he ran inside, left the kitchen wet, and hurled with content towards Will.

“Make yourself useful, go find a wheelbarrow.”

Will looked for Mason after fulfilling his part of the deal and left Hannibal to entertainment with the swine. It didn’t take as long as he assumed it would; when he walked back into the kitchen, Hannibal was there looking over a set of groceries he managed to dig out from the dusty cupboards. Coffee, some flour, various spices, tomato sauce, a can of mushrooms and sugar. He was looking at the row of them with scepticism and crossed arms. They were arranged in some sort of order Will couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“So, uhh, Mason’s in a closet,” Will pulled a chair up by the counter and sat, intrigued by Hannibal’s miffed look. He was clearly unsatisfied with the choices. The man shifted only his sceptical look towards Will when he heard his news so Will amended his statement.

“There’s a joke in there somewhere, but I’m being very literal. Someone shoved him in a closet. Same room where the doctor was.”

“Well how about that,” Hannibal muttered as he turned his sight back the clearly unappealing combination of ingredients.

“Did you check the freezer?” Will went for it as soon as he noticed it, but it was mostly empty. Mostly. A bald head with a gunshot wound greeted him. Will closed the freezer slowly, considered asking why that wasn’t on the menu but then thought better.

He looked through the doctor’s bag and, bless him, he sure did come prepared. When Hannibal set everything that made sense into a pot and let it cook, he threw the ruined shirt in the trash and sat next to Will who had prepared a needle with some silk thread and a few swabs of alcohol. He did not object to the offer seeing as he couldn’t do it himself and it was far too clear for Will how much the injury bothered him. Hannibal may have been ambidextrous, but the straining lack of usage in his left hand was noticed in his movement around the kitchen.

Hannibal made only the slightest twitches with each swab of alcohol and every puncture of the needle. The sight of him in an undershirt was almost unseemly, but he was very blasé about it. It encouraged Will to take this moment and lay out some ground rules, as curious as he was about the reactions they would provoke.

“There’s one thing I’m going to ask of you,” Will kept a careful eye on his needlework while he spoke. The name of that city still lay sour on his tongue so there was a pause between his words before he continued. “Never speak to me of Baltimore. Don’t mention it and don’t remind me of what was if you have any intention of making this work.”

“You can cry over things lost but not forever. Your morality no longer aligned with what it used to consider right.” Hannibal’s words were dry ice, gaze fixed forward.

“I’m serious Hannibal,” Will resisted the urge to twist the needle. “I won’t stay if you choose to remind me of it explicitly, and you sure as hell can’t keep me locked up.”

Fragments of a smile cracked on Hannibal’s face and he gestured with his good hand towards the sliding glass door. “I am not. The door is open Will, you can leave whenever you want.”

“Are you implying you wouldn’t creep after me?” Will raised a single inquisitive eyebrow of suspicion and looked at him. Hannibal turned his head and gave him the same look in return.

“Are you implying you would not crawl back willingly?”

Will scoffed and turned back to his work. His answer came after some long moments of silence spent in thought. “The truth can probably be found somewhere in the middle. A little bit of both,” and he couldn’t help punctuating the words with a slight frown. Will was going to ask again about the agreement he laid out, not really expecting Hannibal to continue on this tangent. But that night was all for surprises, what were a few more?

“I do not force, I instigate. That does not mean I am new to force. You lied about the Italians, Will. You only dealt with one while letting the other run,” they looked at each other again and Will was becomingapprehensive of where the conversation was heading.

“You cannot repress who you are, I enjoy the honesty of it. But,” with his good hand, Hannibal grabbed a hold of Will’s chin and fixed the lock on heir sight. Will expected something of serious tone, but not the chill that crawled down his spine.

“With enough time and patience I could condition you into blind devotion,” the voice came out cruel and stern, but that facade melted quickly with the rest of Hannibal’s words. “That is not what I want from you, not then and not now. The thought of forcing you into anything is very unappealing. I enjoy the way you tick, I prefer your unpredictability. If only it stung less.”

Will replied immediately, compelled by the warmth of honesty that dispelled the chill in him. “You wouldn’t feel such betrayal if you didn't care. I enjoy knowing that,” Will ducked his head back to work, chewing on his lip to stop affections from slipping his control. He still didn’t get an answer to his real question.

“What's done is done, the choices were our own, poor or otherwise. No one came out unscarred,” Will finished with the needlework and broke the thread with his teeth.

He looked at the man proper once again and asked “Do I have you word Hannibal? My one and only condition. Do I have it?”

Hannibal looked him in the eyes and gave a nod, and that was good enough for Will who saw him with indisputable clarity. He heard the price of a promise broken and Will hoped it would not come to it, he truly did.

“Good,” he smiled in full, wiping the stitching with an alcohol swab one last time before grabbing fresh bandages. “I’d hate to have to leave, there’s nowhere else I can...”

Will cut himself off, words fading from his lips. That was not what he really meant to say. There was always a place to go, with a world as large as this. But what anchored him here was the same thing that anchored Hannibal. It was the same thing that made leaving so hard. That one thing missing in their lives for most of its course.

“Dreadful thing to be alone, isn’t it? Especially after you get a taste of the opposite.”

The word lingered on Will’s mind, but he didn’t say it out loud. He didn’t have to. The lid of the pot started to rattle just as the two leaned into each other for a kiss, an impetuous one of all things. Strange for both but no less delightful.

+++

Will was the first to taste the red soup that was cooling in front of him. He could hardly wait so he decided not to and risked a barely cooled spoonful in his mouth. It burned a little but the taste drove a pleasant hum from him.

“This is good!”

Hannibal’s face fell as soon as his nose got a better whiff of the cooling aromas in his spoon. His face fell further into a disappointing grimace when he tasted it.

“I have not made something this bland in over twenty years.”

Will was having none of that. He offered himself as _garbage disposal_ for the soup if Hannibal even considered throwing it away.

“I said bland, not bad. There is a difference,” he shrugged and resigned to eating with a quiet sigh. Throughout the meal he looked akin to a man attending a funeral. “I will prepare something a lot more dignified tomorrow,” he added after the third spoonful, like it was some sort of apology to both Will and himself.

“With the meat from the freezer?” Will asked in between hastily chewed food.

Hannibal concurred with a hum and the corner of his lips curled when he added, “It will add to the authenticity of the dish, make it more indigenous. I believe you asked for something like that recently.”

Will ducked his head and smiled. After their meal, which Hannibal’s miniscule mannerism wordlessly proclaimed as the worst thing that happened that entire day, Will crashed in the first room with a bed-like structure. He was at a point where the floor looked appealing, so the lack of beddings didn’t bother him. There was a pillow, the mattress was soft and Winston curled up next to him. At most he could ask for something to cover himself, but he was beyond getting up for the next twelve hours at least. Besides, Hannibal took care of that. How he still had the stamina to go on so lively was beyond Will’s comprehension or general need to know.

“I’ll have to go back on his ship,” Will’s fingers slowly combed through Winston’s damp hair as he barely kept eyes open on Hannibal. The man had brought a blanket from some other room. “I want my stuff back.”

“Doable,” Hannibal agreed, spread the thin blanket over Will, and added “I intend to take him back.”

Will pulled himself up on elbows after that remark. The look in his eyes was of scrutiny, suddenly sharp and awake. “You must be joking. If you leave him alive, he’s going to keep coming back.”

“Maybe,” the thin smile on Hannibal’s lips was light as air, whimsical, expecting nothing but an interesting development coming from such a choice.

“He’s dangerous to leave alive.”

“And killing him would be a favour,” Hannibal walked out of the room. “I intend to do many things to him tonight, none of which are favours,” he said before closing the door and wishing Will a good sleep.

In the end, as his head crashed once more against the pillows, he didn’t care. Not a thought bothered him, not a moment felt unclear and every choice he made that day he felt with painstaking lucidity. Will didn’t dream that night. No troubling jolts or tricks of the mind kept him up. Not even the dead or the living, not his crimes, not his guilt. Just an endless black sleep, and it was the best sleep he had had in a long time.

Hannibal spent his time in the bathroom while waiting for the morphine to take effect and silence the vulgar voice coming from the closet. He freshened himself up with cool water splashed over his face and neck, something to wake him up a little more. He shaved even, testing the stillness of his hands and honing the sharpness of his sight. The remaining few moments, before silence overtook the room, he spent looking at the tremors in his good hand. He had it levelled with his eyes and he worked on his breathing and concentration to bring it to a stillness. Tired was no way to operate a sharp scalpel but he really didn’t want to leave this for tomorrow. Going through abandoned luggage he found a fresh set of clothes, something even Will could use the next day. He set them aside on the bed for later use, predicting that much of the clothes he wore now would soon be bloodstained. As if they weren’t sufficiently dirty to begin with, but such is life when kidnappings are involved. Lastly, he put a small plastic basin filled with warm water and a washcloth by the door.

He opened the closet and pulled Mason’s wheelchair out into the light and sat on a wooden stool next to him.

“Good morning Mason. I hope you had a decent rest in there,” Hannibal beamed a smile at the sight of raw and red flesh that came into view with the removal of the mask that hid Mason’s face below the eyes. He had no corrections done to his mutilations, no time when all his efforts were focused on Hannibal. Mason looked like half a prop from and old horror movie with his white teeth, brilliant and in full view with no lips to cover them, and the grotesque hollows where his nose used to be.

“I will... I will destroy you...” Mason drawled. “You... regret...”

“Yes, of course,” Hannibal grabbed the scalpel and started mapping out ways to manoeuvre it with his eyes. He decided to start with the scalp, to pull off that nasty, unruly hair. “Now about those improvements I was talking about.”

Hannibal positioned Mason’s gaze towards himself with two gentile fingers set under scarred chin. “You are going to be beautiful, Mason,” his smile showed a row of teeth and with it a most unpleasant feeling uncurled in the back of Mason’s hazy mind. “As beautiful as you are on the inside.”

+++

A heavenly smell roused Will in the late afternoon from his sleep, deep and endless but not immune to the growl of the stomach. It led him by the nose through white hallways that looked different washed in daylight, cleared of any traces it could have had of its former patron.

“Ah, just in time.”

It came as no surprise to find Hannibal decked out in something clean yet still awfully casual, busied over the stove with several pots and pans. He gave himself quite some work for a man who had limited use in one arm, probably even drove out to the city. Will saw his dog munching on dry crisps from a bowl and had his suspicions confirmed, though looking at the table should have been enough. The plates were different and the bottle of Chianti was certainly new, as was the tall and thin, frail-looking white vase holding a single red chrysanthemum.

“Go wash up, dinner will be served in a moment,” Hannibal didn’t spare Will any looks between the jerking motions of his good hand that stirred the vegetables in a pan and the glances he kept giving to the oven. “Another long day ahead of us, I am afraid.”

“Returning the Verger?”

“Yes, but we will have to be done by 8:30 PM. There is a ferry to catch.”

Will had a hundred questions about getting aboard the Verger yacht but his face only rounded in surprise at the thought of a voyage to mainland. Hannibal spared him a look finally and revealed one last detail.

“Perhaps you would be interested in visiting Florence.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter can be considered the conclusion of the story. One more to go, though! That one will feature me vomiting a fuckton of moments they share around Italy. A few-months-later kind of thing, domestic and all. Also I'll drop some info about future plans for this series and others, for any and all interested in that.   
> See you then :D


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 13, feat. ten sugary addition to the ending, such as - bedroom shenanigans, hair dressing, fishing, cooking, buying fancy clothes, being privy to another's familial misfortune, shaving, theater, murder date-night and sexy bedroom shenanigans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch.12 was the end so I didn't rush with this sugary nonsense, mostly because I have a chronic case of depleting motivation and seasonal sickness - terrible writing conditions. This will eventually be released as a stand alone one-shot (probably a little more polished). Anyway, enjoy 12k words of stuff that might be too close to boring anyone other than me to death. None of the stories take place on the same day, think of it as moments throughout the span of a month or so.

 

**\--- Sleep I ---**

Will took the news with varying degrees of disdain and Hannibal was nothing but amused by it. At least the hotel was pet-friendly. It had to be.

“Influx of tourists, it would seem,” Hannibal said over soft elevator music. “They had no other rooms vacant but these.”

The language barrier made Will suspicious but he restrained from commenting. In a way he felt like he didn’t have to justify his unease. On the very rare occasion when someone would spend a night in his bed, it was mostly a woman and still he’d spend most of his sleep restless and wonder how to tell someone to leave and be nice about it. He was very quick to do so in reverse cases, even when it made him feel like an asshole. He just didn’t enjoy another presence in his bed, or perhaps he just wasn’t used to it. But that was ancient history and a time when he felt a lot younger than today.

Nowadays he was only used to sharing covers with the occasional overly-lovable dog. But new circumstances brought forth the possibility of new experiences. His discomfort was logical and he didn’t enjoy that idea of a shared bed. A large part of it had everything to do with the injury he felt with every step he took.

It was a three star hotel they settled in that evening after their ferry ride to mainland, and a well furnished one with warm wood and soft carpeting. There was a bed for two, a large white bathroom, the mini-bar that hardly felt _mini_ and looked as refined as the wooden armoires, and a wide LCD TV strung up on the wall. It looked a lot luxurious than he’d expect for three stars, but that Will accredited to Hannibal’s finely tuned hedonistic senses. The good news was it came with a cot. The bad news was it made the one Mason had him sleeping on feel like a Kluft mattress.

Will was fresh out of the shower and in his sleeping garments when he sat on the cot and the springs made a dying sound. Hannibal had long since changed into comfortable satin as he read a book while lounging on his side of the bed. There was more than enough room for both.

“Are you certain you wouldn’t rather—”

“No, I’m certain,” Will’s answer was snappy. “I don’t enjoy sharing beds.”

“Is that the only reason?” Hannibal lowered his book for that one.

“It’s mostly the only reason.”

There was something biting in the way Hannibal smiled with a light shake to his head and turned back to reading his book. Perhaps he enjoyed the aversion, perhaps he was mocking it. It was probably a little of both, but Will wasn’t going to lose sleep over it. The discomfort would take care of that, or the occasional nightmare.

Hannibal’s sleep was light; a long maintained tradition of security. He flicked on the nightlight when the sound of heavy breathing got replace with a screech of wiring and a yelp. Winston had his head on the cot where Will was sitting up, thousand yard stare in his eyes and heaving like a man caught in a run. Hannibal was quick to get up and grab a towel from the bathroom. He sat next to Will and wrapped the towel around his neck, wiping off the sweat from his brow. The only acknowledgement of thanks Will gave him was resting his head on Hannibal’s shoulder. He raked fingers through sweat-ridden curl while the other loosened from the grip his nightmare had him in. Will was quick to relax but not to leave the comfort offered to him.

“What did you dream of?” Hannibal’s question got exactly the answer he expected, a denial. _I don’t remember._ He didn’t believe it, but he restrained from commenting, he restrained from advice. Hannibal made a promise he felt a need to keep, for now, and he did not like it. He did not enjoy knowing Will was repressing, bottling down issue he still had trouble getting over. The worst form of therapy. But he made a promise, and he was going to keep it. For now.

Instead Hannibl offered the bed again. Will enjoyed the contact, the proximity, the hand sliding down his back. It was grounding. Pleasant. But still he refused and pulled back.

Will couldn’t meet his eyes even when he deflected further with humorous remarks and an indication that sitting up to fast hurt him. Whatever his dreams were calling back made him difficult, made Will dismissive and eager to get back to sleep. Kitchen tiles and sharp knives. Hannibal’s assumption was too obvious but so was Will with his dismissiveness.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Will said easing back slowly and thanked him for the towel.

As soon as Hannibal got up from the cot, Winston displayed something only he started to notice. The dog was very territorial of Will and his injury, or maybe Will in general, but only when the man had his eyes closed. Perhaps this would turn out to be a constant. For the moment he seemed to have taken upon himself to be Will’s eyes when the other slept, a comfort and a shield often situating himself close to or even on Will like he did now. His master groaned a bit before the dog adjusted but otherwise didn’t seem to be bothered. A light smile was on Will’s lips and it grew when he peeked at the dog and saw Hannibal’s hand scratch him behind the ear.

“You two getting along fine?” Will asked.

“We tolerate each other,” the answer drew a chuckle out of Will that his stomach made him immediately regret.

For people so self-contained, it was not a curious thing to require adjustment for company that persisted. The habits of Will’s sleep were nothing uncommon, nothing that couldn’t be adapted to. Hannibal, though, was uncommonly surprise by the easy acceptance of another in his sanctuary, inside and outside, where things no longer had to be obscured. Everything laid in open view. The first time he allowed it to happen he paid dearly for it; _everybody_ paid dearly for it. Not one to give second chances yet here he was, doing just that, and feeling all the better for it.

It was not rare for Hannibal to wake and find the other body in the room misplaced and odd, a mistake that cost him much once and would cost him even more in the future. The awkward stitching on his shoulder would itch with ire as he would stand above its bed and watch the rhythmic movement of his chest, the pulse of blood in the veins on his neck, the slightest movement of sheets with the morning bird’s chirp. Defenceless. A candle just waiting for someone to blow out its flames. But infallibility was a god-like status, unachievable. Hannibal made mistakes. If this was truly one of them, it would be no strange thing to consider it his best and dearest one.

Hannibal sat on the cot, his hand on Will’s face, thumb stroking the crinkles in the corner of his eye.

“Will,” he called out as the man took his sweet time to wake and open his eyes in full, “Will, your dog needs a walk.”

Winston had been camping the hotel room door with an eager wag for a good half hour.

 

* * *

 

 

**\--- Refined Taste ---**

It was early morning, first rays of sun just barely fighting through the hills in the east. Will was sitting out on the balcony, cup of coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other. It took him three failed attempts and some very dangerous looks, but he finally grasped the concept of smoking outside, on the rare occasion he’d feel the need for it. Morning usually, with a cup of strong black.

This was a great moment to introduce Will with an ancient invention, over five thousand years in age yet Hannibal felt like Will didn’t know it even existed. Well that was wrong, actually. Hannibal distinctly remembered a short period of time where Will’s selective memory decided to acknowledge this particular invention. But right now he was back to square one, and it was innerving to Hannibal. So much in fact that he bought a rather expensive one yesterday, bamboo wood, and picked this as an appropriate moment to reintroduce Will with it.

“I bought you something,” Hannibal came up behind Will and squeezed his shoulder. The action jolted the man from his daydream and Will turned his head to the other, curious. “You may have heard of it. In fact, you have probably used it at some point of your life and I would very much like for you to reacquaint yourself with those days.”

What Hannibal held out on Will’s eye level was a wooden comb. Will was dumbfounded for a moment before he gave out a laid-back laugh.

“Are you implying my hair’s a mess?”

“Of course not. That is a fact, not an implication.” Hannibal placed a hand below his chin and tipped the head back. “A demonstration, if you would.”

Hannibal was meticulous and slow with the pulls of the comb but Will could not complain too much. The gentile, slow raking of wooden teeth across his scalp was particularly pleasant. Still, there was dignity to protect.

“Oh come one, my hair’s shot—”

“Not really.”

“—it hardly ever tangles—”

“It does.”

“—and I do use a brush.”

“Poorly.”

Will sighed and tried to shake his head free. The hand below his chin didn’t let him; it continued to guide and manoeuvre his head to the comb’s path.

“You’re over exaggerating, Hannibal. I don’t look nearly as bad as you make it sound.”

There was a light pout on Hannibal’s upside-down face that said it all. “You do not, but you could look better.”

Much like visiting a silent hairdresser, it was a pleasing experience to have someone else’s hands work on him. Regardless, Will knew that if it were up to him, he’d do three swoops and call it quits. That’s just not the kind of time wasting he enjoyed. Hannibal clearly did, and Will did not want to know how early that man woke up every day to look as fresh and put together as he did when Will cracked his eyes at seven. And yet tenacity had to be applauded, and there was certainly skill in it. Or Will assumed so at least; he didn’t know anything about hairdressing, but what he did know was that it felt great to have someone toying with his hair for a good five minutes. What settled the end of this enjoyable event were fingers tucking loose curls behind his ears. The experience left him with bristled hairs on the back of his neck.

“All done,” Hannibal said, very pleased with his work, and offered the comb to Will, cleaned of any hair. Will did not accept it, instead pushing it back towards Hannibal. He felt with a light touch across his head all the curl flattened and set into smooth lines.

“No, no. You keep it. Next time we leave this room together and you find yourself particularly embarrassed by the _mess_ on my head, feel free to treat me to another one of these experiences.”

Will’s grin was sly when he looked up at him and added, “Like you said – I use a brush and I use it poorly. This tool would be lost on me.”

Nothing Hannibal couldn’t work with, nothing Hannibal found particularly distasteful to work with. On the contrary, it was quite charming to have had Will ask that of him. He sealed the contract by leaning over and indulging the other in a short upside-down peck. The indulgence would always come after the first fraction of a second where something in Will would still reel back or twitch in surprise. So far Hannibal enjoyed it, enjoyed pushing his buttons about it, enjoyed surprising him with earned exchanges of affection, all to ease the other into comfort with a relationship that perplexed him slightly. He was yet to coax Will off the couch and into bed. All in due time, patience Hannibal had plenty.

 

* * *

 

 

**\--- A Different Kind of Hunt ---**

If Will had to put money on it, he’d expect sooner to see Hannibal in jail wearing Velcro’s than waist deep in a river wearing waders. If he had made that bet he would have lost.

When Will made the offer, he expected it to be received as a joke. It was certainly the last thing he’d expect Hannibal to agree to. He still wasn’t sure why the man agreed, but Hannibal did and he bought some fairly expensive equipment to boot. Will wondered where he gets all this money from, but not before he had spent half the day fawning over the clearly too expensive rod.

“Swiss bank account,” was the only answer Will got, followed by a short story of the view of Lake Geneva from the highest tower of _Château de Chillon_.

Will’s fastidiousness shined when he took a whole afternoon to make a few batches of fly lures, even ones he wouldn’t need. He didn’t bother explain the process behind their careful creation, even when Hannibal loomed behind him for hours, watching. The man never asked because he was fairly acquainted with the process himself. Will was not going to forget that little incident any time soon, but the entirety of his focus was on the tiny bits of flashy fur, feathers, silks and the bronze hooks.

It was an artful process watching Will work as he turned each hook with carefully chosen materials into an imitation of an insect. He was missing the magnifying glass which Hannibal noted in the way Will’s eyes started squinting after prolonged focus. He said nothing though, and only announced what each set was for when he had finished making them.

“These four are dry flies, the flashy sets are attractors and the others are imitations of a Stonefly. The other two are streamer flies. We’ll use the dry one’s first.”

He made one last bait – a perfect imitation of a dragonfly – because all that blue fur was just begging to be used. When he left his work station to stretch and get some coffee, Hannibal took the dragonfly and put it under stronger light for a closer look. Wonderfully woven around a bronze hook, long blue body and white wing-like feathery imitations on its side, it was not only a skilful display but also a work of art.

“I don’t intend to use it tomorrow,” Will said. “I just like making those.”

Hannibal accepted the silent offer and placed the work in his pocket.

+++

“No, I heard the whipping noise. Cast again.”

Will Graham, the teacher, was not a lenient person. It didn’t take Hannibal all that long to grasp the basics of the overhead cast. It was all about control, not power, a thing Hannibal knew lots about. Stopping the hand at the exact moment during the cast and watching closely on the line. Also, the whipping noise was bad. And after nothing short of a perfect cast was made, the remaining job was _simple_ , as Will had put it. The simplicity of it consisted of attentively staring at the fly floating on the water and endless patience for the exact moment a fish would swim to the surface to gobble it up.

Something occurred on the surface of the water on Hannibal’s side and Will had a wide-eye stare as he watched the man strip the line in to see if anything had been caught. The pull was weighted, there was definitely something on it, but Hannibal pulled too soon and the bite wasn’t strong enough. Only the fly remained when he reeled the full length of it.

“Oh, thank god,” Will chuckled at the mildly irate look of disbelief Hannibal was giving him. “Took me ages to land my first fish with this method. No one, _no one_ , is that good on their first try. I’m just glad the universe agrees with me on that one.”

“My word, Mr. Graham. What a wonderfully optimistic teacher you are, and quite strict,” Hannibal shook his head and preformed another cast, no whipping sound, and then another different kind of cast. “I freight for any class you might hold. The success rate would be demoralizing.”

Will should have let it go; it was breaking his own rules. He could feel the hook pulling on his tongue and he resisted it for a long silent moment before he chose to firmly bite down on it and give the man a catch.

“I’ll have you know, the success rate of my classes was sixty percent. I gave them more than was necessary to teach, but I expected equal amounts of effort on the tests,” Will said and there was unmistakable pride in his voice. “The other forty—” he stopped for a moment when he noticed movement on the water and continued when he started reeling in the line. “The other forty percent did not pass because they did not deserve to pass. Simple as that.”

Will pulled a trout up from the water and asked, “Dinner or mercy?”

“Dinner I hope. I did not step into a river to leave empty handed.”

 

* * *

 

 

**\--- Sous Chef ---**

Getting Hannibal out of the kitchen took some clever timing and quick occupation of his territory in his absence. When the man came back after a long morning of walks and shopping among the Florentine streets, he saw the kitchen and had that look about himself, like someone had just pissed all over his territory. But shooing Will out of his workplace would be discourteous, especially considering the other was in the middle of making something for dinner.

It’s not that Hannibal didn’t believe Will could cook. On the contrary; the man lived alone for most of his life, of course he knew the ways of the kitchen. He just didn’t know them well enough. Will never entertained the possibility of being a cook as good as his partner but then again he had no aspirations for that. What Will was certain of was that he knew a few Louisiana dishes Hannibal had probably never entertained the thought of making. He kept it regional though; the gumbo he set out to cook would be of the seafood variety.

Hannibal took a seat in the kitchen and watched him work. He was in the middle of chopping vegetables with the chef’s knife, Hannibal’s favourite eight inch long stainless steel paintbrush of choice. And it showed on his face, the note of disapproval, when Will threw the occasional look at him and returned to his work with a cynical smile.

“What is this, MasterChef?” Will stopped his chopping to address the critical stares. “If you’ve got a problem, say it.”

“Your chopping techniques are dreadful to watch,” Hannibal’s face turned a degree sour.

“Thanks for that incredibly helpful criticism, I hope it made you feel better,” Will’s retort was snappish. After a few more sliced pieces of onion he added, “My pedestrian ways will have to suffice.”

“No, they shouldn’t” Hannibal got up and circled the counter. Will pointed the knife at him, a little playful and a little pissed, which told Hannibal the other felt like he was about to get thrown out. “I am not here to take over your work,” his finger slid over the knife and pushed it aside. “I am here to teach you how to use that knife properly. Or better at least.”

Will didn’t agree to it, but rejection wasn’t an option. He got slight praise for his finely minced garlic but Hannibal quickly deflated the compliment with a comment that even eight year olds could excel at cross-chopping. And that was a new word Will was certain he’d never use in his vocabulary.

A few more he learned that seemed equally useless, _tap-chopping_ and _rock-chopping_ , but the techniques less so. Hannibal offered quick demonstration on the peppers, gliding the incredibly sharp knife in a rocking chair motion over the vegetable and fine thin slices were produced in his wake. The speed with which he worked was too quick for Will to follow and made him seem slower than he had been with his old ways.

“You cannot hurt yourself if you position your hands properly,” Hannibal moved closer behind him and took hold of his hand. “The tips of your fingers,” both his hands moved over Will’s pliant one, setting the fingers into proper position, “are always behind the knuckles. And the knuckles,” Hannibal slid his thumb over them gently, “they guide the knife. It is virtually impossible to sustain injury like that. Try again.”

He circled the counter again to watch Will work the knife. With his hand in position, he was a little quicker and with a few pieces of the pepper chopped, he could even spare to look away from his hands and the gliding of the knife, but only for a short moment, just enough to give Hannibal a look of satisfaction.

“Not a bad lesson,” he wiped his hands and came around where Hannibal stood. “But considering you’ve got nothing better to do I’m going to ask you to walk Winston and leave scrutinising judgement of my use of spices for dinner, hmm?” Will erased the briefest traces of crinkling disappointment in Hannibal’s eyes with a brief kiss on his cheek, a pat on his back and a quick  _Thanks_.

And when dinner time came and Will served stark white plates of seafood gumbo, Hannibal mixed the spoon of it in his mouth with a long look of absence and deep thought like he was sampling fine wine. Will was on his third spoonful, ones he actually swallowed, when the other finally spoke up.

“I would have gone with a little less cayenne and maybe a little more of...” a hint of uncertainty crossed his face when he asked for clarification, “Worcestershire sauce?” Will dispelled his doubt with a nod. “Yes. A little more of that. Otherwise it is a fine dish. The presentation, on the other hand—”

“Oh no,” Will jumped in quickly before he even swallowed his food. “The chopping was useful but I’m having no lessons of that.”

“Considering the effort and detail you put in the design of your fly baits, I would say you would have an eye for food presentation.”

Perhaps he would, but that didn’t change the fact that Will could not fathom less of a fuck for the look of his plate. It was going to get eaten anyway, what was the point? Be he couldn’t quite be so brisk with Hannibal, not about something the other so clearly enjoyed and excelled at to a divine scale.

“I’m not going to say I’m adverse to the idea of being taught a few tricks, but to get a yes from me you’ll probably have to get me drunk first.”

“Speaking of, I bought what you asked for.”

Will’s eyes lit up with the thought of whiskey in the house. “Finally, the reign of wine is over,” he muttered. “How much do I owe you?” Hannibal shook his head. “No, I’m serious, how much was it?”

“A lot more than you would be willing to give for a bottle of scotch, trust me.”

That night over their third glass of scotch Will asked him about his culinary merits in a manner more brisk than usual. Alcohol loosened all sorts of tongues, not just Will’s, and the answer he got was another little mystery in itself.

“I've known true hunger. It’s half the reason why I indulge in the craft of fine cuisine. One should always strive for nothing less than perfection when it comes to catering themselves.”

Strange little clues presented themselves to one day reveal the full picture, but not that day. Each piece had to be earned.

* * *

 

 

**\--- Aesthete ---**

“I’m not too sure about this,” Will said to no one in particular because no one in particular was listening to him.

The woman stalking around him with measuring tape was talking a mile a minute, too fast for him to catch on. The language barrier was still an issue, but he did catch on to some common words. Not with this lady, though. But then again, she wasn’t talking to him at all, mostly just rearranging his limbs to better strap them with her measuring tool. He flinched when she measured his waist.

Hannibal was the one that conversed with her and returned each of her quickly stringed questions with an answer. They talked of patterns and fabrics, colours and styles until they reached a mutual consensus without a question directed at the unwilling model – Italian cut, no vest, notched lapels, single-breast jacket and a handful of colours. The woman was so quick to return Will did not get a full chance to question Hannibal on his choices, instead pieces of clothing one after another got laid over his shoulder as Hannibal and the lady exchanged critiques over the colour.

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Will blurted out and got a confused look from Hannibal in return.

“Well of course. We were just narrowing down the competition for you.”

Will did not bother arguing the semantics of that line as he knew only the basics of buying suits to begin with. And that was in America. The finely crafted clothing he saw passed around looked a lot different than what he remembered across the sea. Only three of them waited for his choice. None of them all too flashy, no intricate patterns, mostly dark tones of gray and blue. Will was quick to choose, as soon as his eyes settled on the steel blue one for longer than five second. Might as well.

Both the lady and Hannibal approved his choice with a smile. She dropped the suit, a shirt and a matching dark tie to go with it and sent him towards the changing cabinets.

“Not a man of suits,” the owner crinkled her nose as she watched Will leave for the wardrobe. “Perhaps I should also bring something a little more casual?”

“Oh no, familiarizing with something a little formal is just what he needs.”

Will was slow to dress and even slower to leave the cabinet after he caught a look at himself in the mirror. He fiddled with his hair for a moment, tried to slick it back as best as his fingers could manage but that made it even worse. The view that greeted him in the mirror was just not his own. It was too different, even from those odd moments he wore a suit himself, long ago in a different life. Hurried voiced from the woman that got him the suit finally dragged him out.

She was the first to see him and her face lit up, hands clapped together as she exclaimed, “ _Ma che bello!_ ” She had a good look around him, noting areas that might need trimming, and directed him towards the much larger mirror where he once again stared off into the unknown.

“Few and far will be the moment I wear this,” Will muttered.

The owner and Hannibal exchanged a few final words before she left them and he joined Will by the mirror. There was usually a clear discrepancy between the two men, both in their poise and wear. Old habits die hard and Will looked like he wasn’t ready or willing to let go of his guarded posture that served to fend off unwanted attention, now more so than ever. A creature of solitude he remained, just as he was when Hannibal had first met him. And Hannibal himself stayed much the same, or as much as he could with a distant menace that threatened to become relevant at any undisclosed moment.

The darker dye of his hair made him look a few years younger and the warmer climate requested his wear be a lot less layered, leisurely – a vest was not an option. He wore distinctly lighter colours that day and sunglasses, now tucked in his breast pocket, to fend off the bright glare of the white-stone Florentine streets. No matter how casually the man dressed himself, nothing could stop him from looking any less fashionable, not even the Panama hat Will found ridiculous up until the moment he saw Hannibal wear it. The owner was first to take note, and fancy, of Hannibal’s graciousness. That was an interesting thing to observe from Will’s standpoint, the earnest diligence the other man had as he charmed the owner out of her sour mood a previous pair of customers left her with. She complimented his style and was the one to point at the stark contrast between Hannibal and the unwilling friend he dragged in.

That very discrepancy they walked in with was lost in front of the mirror, with Will dolled up in a tightly fitted suit.

“The suit really does make the man,” Will broke the silence and tried on a more relaxed pose with his hands filling out the trouser’s pockets. He still looked incredibly new to himself.

“I would not agree,” Hannibal said and asked him to make a few laps in front of the mirror. “I have known and seen plenty of men who would spend most of their lives in a fine suit yet do it a disservice.”

“Clearly they chose bad tailors,” Will’s laugh was breezy as he stopped his pacing and took position next to Hannibal again. “I mean look at that,” he pointed at the mirror, “That’s just... I can barely recognize myself. I feel weird in it.”

Before he offered his rebuttal, Hannibal asked Will to turn. The knot on his tie was unsatisfying and demanded an upgrade to a full Windsor.

“I have an excellent eye for beauty and elegance. Trust me Will, you do not look weird in it.”

“Oh no, I’m not disputing that, the suit is great, it’s just—”

“I was not praising the suit, Will.”

Will couldn’t get the dismissive laugh out of him in time before heat bubbled in his chest and turned his throat dry. Well, that was a first. He turned his head away with the laugh and quickly deflected the conversation, just as Hannibal was finishing the knot.

“I really can’t stand ties,” Will’s hand was already twitching to dig some room between the snug fabric.

“Try to manage for the trip back. I would love to take it off when we get home,” Hannibal took a step back and gave him one last look over, head to toe and back before adding with a light smile, “all of it.”

A wolfish grin spread over Will’s feature, a sharp danger to it only accentuated with the suit he wore. “I’d warn you to be careful with it,” he joked, “but I’m not even going to pay for it, am I?”

“I can tell you the price, but I doubt you will want to when you hear it.”

“I choose ignorance then,” Will went for the wardrobe the get the clothes he came in bagged. “Seriously though, how do you get the money for all this?”

“I am a count.”

Will laughed at the nonsensical answer, but did a double take when he saw Hannibal’s face and its lack of dishonesty.

 

* * *

**\--- Father’s Love ---**

“D’you think you can fix it?” The man chewed his thumbnail as Will had a look around his two motorboat engines that took this day to fail in unison, the guy’s second day of vacation.

“Yeah, shouldn’t take more than a day,” Will said finally and tapped a finger against the open casing of the motors as he thought. “I’ll need a few things from the hardware store... It’ll cost you around 200€ all together, give or take.”

“Done deal!” The man was overjoyed. “I’m just so happy I finally found someone who speaks English in this damned place.”

The man, Jonathan, drove off to find a hardware store with two lists of items; one on English and the other a translation supplied by Hannibal. He left his wife and child at the vacation rental on the outskirts of Rimini that Hannibal and Will stayed in, the sea only half a mile from them.

Martha, the wife, tried to be as gracious as she could about their intrusion. She attempted to offer assistance to Hannibal, unsuccessfully, as he took out a table and some chairs.

“Really, you shouldn’t have,” she said apologetically as Hannibal offered a tray of bruschettas topped with tomatoes, mozzarella and basil. When he also brought out a bottle of white wine, she took to offering thanks instead.

“I’m so glad we ran into Mr. Graham,” she said on her second piece. “It means a lot to us, really. We just started this vacation and it means a lot to us.”

The woman was a little stiff on their first meeting, a little cold with her introduction and a dismissive handshake. Impolite by Hannibal’s standards, but she was quick to rectify her attitude as her husband drove off. She met Hannibal’s eyes then and smiled courtly, offered another proper handshake and a better introduction of her five year old daughter, Amy. Little could sway the girl’s attention when she sat her eyes on Winston, but manners she had and was quick to make acquaintances. The slightest trouble she had pronouncing Hannibal’s name was expected, unlike the old memories that came with it of a darling little girl her age lost to time and circumstances. Almost forty years of distance could do nothing to fade her image in his mind. An unfortunate curse as well as a blessing.

The wine Hannibal shared with the girl’s mother only served to loosen the woman even more as they talked of places in Italy they should visit and exchanged some recipes in their idle chatter.

“So you’re travelling around with your friend?” Martha asked as she watched Will work the wrench on their motors from afar.

“Something like that,” Hannibal said. “I have been here a few weeks longer than he has. The man is married to his job; he took some convincing to cross the pond.”

“Wow. Now that’s being a great friend,” Hannibal hummed into his wine glass as she continued, “My husband’s friends are only good for taking him to the bar.”

There was a momentary lapse in her merry facade when she finished that sentence. The word _bar_ drew out a sour look from her face and voice. She looked at the third, half finished, glass of wine in her hand and set it down and pushed it away with the tip of her finger.

“Enjoying wine hardly makes you a hypocrite,” Hannibal said with a smile, kind and reassuring. “It only means you know control.”

Martha sighed and laughed, berating herself for letting too many details slip, but then continued to ease herself of these things. It was easiest to talk to a stranger about it, a person you would never again have to see. Even more so when that person introduced himself as a practitioner of psychiatry.

“He’s working on it, we’re all working on it. That’s why this vacation is important to us. That and,” she laughed dryly, “he doesn’t know how to ask for a beer in this country.”

Hannibal had brought out some cupcake for her daughter, but Martha insisted she not have any, that sweets make her hyper. As soon as the woman disappeared in the house to find the bathroom, he called the child over. Amy was buzzing around the boat Will worked on, playing with his dog and watching him work with an occasional curious question, but as soon as she was called she was quick to buzz to the table and climb a chair closest to Hannibal. Her shoes were muddy and stained the chair she climbed on. It was nothing Hannibal could hold against a child, not one that brought such fond old memories with appearance. He held a dark cupcake with a white cream topping in her view and it came with an offer.

“Can I?” her eyes lit up.

“Don’t tell your mother,” was the only condition she had to affirm before he gave it to her.

Amy gave him a large gap-tooth smile and a nod so strong her blond curls bounced over her head. She finished the little treat in a few bites with grandiose approval and asked for another, something Hannibal found hard to deny. He watched her eat and couldn’t help but wonder why she wore long sleeves. The weather was warm enough for something lighter and the girl constantly had to wipe her sweat with her sleeves. Amy had sweatbands, though, but never used them. On the contrary, she seemed annoyed with them, constantly sticking fingers under the bands and scratching her skin.

“Why don’t you take them off?” Hannibal asked her.

“I can’t,” the shake of her head was vehement and what she proceeded to gesticulate were adult actions that were clearly aimed at her often. Her face got suddenly grump as she played the role of her father, stabbing her finger at Hannibal’s arm and mimicked a deep voice, “Never take off in public, never ever.”

Hannibal looked around in over exaggerated movements. “Where is your father now?”

“He went to the, uhh... harward store?”

“So he’s not here?”

“Nope!”

“How will he know if you take them off?” Amy was going to say something but she quickly closed her mouth in contemplation. “I won’t tell,” Hannibal whispered with a smile.

She was stuck thinking about her decision for a long time, and the longer she considered the wider her grin grew as she worried her lip. She agreed finally with a very certain nod and took the sweatbands off.

“They’re sooooo itchy, I hate them,” she said as she placed them in her pockets.

Hannibal’s face faltered for the briefest moment when he noticed dark olive and yellow stains on the girl’s wrists. Week old injuries that suddenly felt like the first of many hidden under long sleeves.

“Amy,” he ruffled her hair with a smile, “would you like to help me make some pink lemonade?”

Her eyes grew twice their size at the sound of the word pink and she did not fail to be intrigued by the offer.

+++

“Mr. Wiiiiill,” Amy called as she made her way towards the busy man. She was careful in her step as she carried a tall glass of lemonade, tinted pink just lightly with fresh strawberries. “I brought you some lemonade!”

Will was glad to hear the offer. He pocketed the few screws he held between his teeth and turned towards the kid to accept her offer. She held up the tall glass towards him and it was impossible for Will not to notice the bruises around her wrist reveal as her sleeves fell back.

“D’you not like lemonade?” she frowned when she noticed his face fall. “Mr. Hannibal says it’s very good for you and this one has strawberries too, so it’s twice as good!”

He quickly forced a smile before taking the lemonade and said, “Ah, no, no, I was just surprised by the colour. Not something you see often.”

Will downed the glass very quickly and went for a refill. As soon as he went inside to get another drink, Hannibal excused himself for a moment from the table to get his own refill.

“You’ve got my attention,” Will said when their eyes met. “How long are they staying in Rimini?”

“Long enough.”

Hannibal wasn’t awfully wordy about the subject until the family left. What painfully stuck with Will throughout the day was the girl hurrying to put on her sweatbands as her father drove into sight. She had noticed Will watching and pressed a finger against her lips in a shushing sound. She did not look playful in her request, more like pleading.  

 

* * *

**\--- Trust ---**

His hands smelled of almonds and the skin of his face was incredibly soft to the touch. It was a good soap, overpriced but good. Will considered getting one himself in the future, but right now other things worried him; certain things he agreed to and was already regretting.

He sat down in a chair and watched Hannibal drag the straight razor across the strop. He’d been doing it for a good minute now. How much sharper did that thing need to be? The brush and lather were already prepared and maybe it wasn’t too late to voice out his unease for the fifth time after firmly and undeniably agreeing to this.

“I’m really not—”

“All done,” Hannibal exclaimed as he looked the blade over on eye-level. “Let’s not have this argument for the sixth time,” he let go of the tool and explored with closed eyes and the tips of his fingers the shape of the face and neck he was about to put under the blade. Every dimple, curve and bone he passed with ardent fingers.

“The only possible way to hurt yourself,” Hannibal took the shaving cream and started applying it with the brush, “is if you make sudden movements. Try not to do that. Especially when the blade is on your throat.”

Hannibal said it with a light jest in his tone, but it only served to convince Will the error of his agreement. A big part of him was openly uncomfortable with the general aspect of having a sharp blade pressed to his face. A silent part of him was just unnerved by the thought of Hannibal Lecter having a sharp blade slide against his skin. That, he thought, was probably why he agreed – an effort to shut down the thought that made no sense in his head. And it didn’t make any sense, a few hours ago when he agreed to this. Right now, as an instinctual arm lay across his still healing stab wound, it made too much sense and Will flinched when he felt metal against his cheek.

Hannibal didn’t say anything at first; his brow just crinkled and his eyes narrowed at Will through the bathroom mirror.

“What did I just say?”

“I really love my beard, ok? There’s a reason—”

“That is so far from the actual problem I feel insulted just listening to it,” Hannibal said dryly and stopped Will’s incentive to speak with two fingers pressed against the man’s lips. “Shush and be still,” he said, tilting Will’s head to the side and positioning the blade at a perfect 30° angle with his skin.

The motions were smooth, unhurried, and after the fifth stroke they started feeling pleasant instead of awkward. Every few strokes, Hannibal would wash the lather off the blade, wipe it in a towel and continue the shaving until all the plains of Will’s face were void of foam and hair. Will’s eyes followed the blade closely as it skirted across his jaw. He could no longer follow it when Hannibal tipped his head backwards to properly reach his throat.

He grinned and asked Will, “Are we alright now? Can we manage without sudden movements?”

Will tried honesty. “You’re a doctor, how bad could a cut be?”

“There is only so much I can do with a sliced carotid,” Hannibal’s response was deadly serious.

“Jesus Christ,” Will tore his head away from the man’s hands and the blade resting close by. “That’s not funny, asshole,” he snarled at Hannibal’s smiling reflection.

“No, no it is not. And neither is whatever’s making you believe I would do such a thing to you.”

Hannibal kept his smile up but it felt rather joyless. It lured Will back into position with a sigh, no words said. All the hair on his arms bristled the first time the razor slid slowly the full length of his throat, over the bump of his Adam’s apple and up his chin. And the second time. And the third time. But by then it bristled for different reasons and his eyes drifted shut.

+++

Hannibal was very content with his work and its product. He watched Will from his profile while the other observed his face in the mirror.

“Lovely,” Hannibal found the smooth lines of Will’s face to be quite charming. It was a very different look for the man, very new. It would go wonderful with the suit he had. “The shave took ten years right off of you.”

“I usually do this once a year,” Will rubbed the back of his hand against his freakishly smooth cheek. The sensation was unnatural. “I do it just to remind myself how much I love having a beard,” his eyes narrowed as he side-eyed Hannibal who was clearly enjoying the view a lot more than him.

“Enjoy it while it lasts, I guess.” Will smiled, impish, and hooked his fingers on straps of Hannibal’s belt, sliding leather through the buckle without much hurry.

It prompted the other to comment with an equally mischievous grin, “Is this an apology, Will?”

“Because nothing says _I’m sorry_ better than a good cock sucking.” Will heard the other hum disapprovingly with his choice of words so he looked him in the eyes and added, “I have nothing to apologise for.”

“That so?” The next hum that left him was a lot more pleased when Will’s slipped his hand through the waistband of his trousers. “It feels very apologetic.”

Will was quick to drag both of his hands up where he can see them. “I’m trying to be nice here and you’re giving me shit. Listen, if you don’t want this just say so. I don’t need to do this.”

“Yes, you don’t need to do it, you _want_ to do it,” he closed the measly distance between them with barely a step forward. “Did you enjoy having a knife to your throat that much?”

“Not the least bit,” Will deadpanned.

“That is not a very honest answer.”

“It’s not a lie either,” his fingers found their way back on the waistband of Hannibal’s trousers.

He tried another step to force Will back and out the bathroom preferably, but the man didn’t budge, instead giving Hannibal quizzical looks.

“For goodness sakes, Will,” Hannibal’s eyes directed over his shoulder, “there’s a perfectly comfortable sofa to sit on in the other room.”

“I prefer you standing.”

It was a riveting experience to have Hannibal falter on his feet from pleasure, have him grab Will’s shoulder to steady himself in between the groans, deep and satisfied. Not so riveting was his occasional need to speak and keep up with the invisible score of goading that settled too naturally in their daily exchanges.

“ _Nnn,_ my compliments,” he watched the length of his cock disappear behind hard working lips, more than usual. “You are getting better at this.”

Will grunted something offensive, but Hannibal chose not to concern himself with the muffled insult and instead enjoy the vibrations of the throat that came with.

 

* * *

**\--- Il Barbiere di Siviglia ---**

“We’re going to be fine, right?” Marina squeezed her husband’s hand as a sign of assurance, yet she asked of him the same; to assure her with words. Was this too much? She loved theatre plays, especially on the open, but was this wasting money? Was it worth the few hours it would liberate her from worry?

“Of course,” Alesso wrapped his hands around her. “The bank just about confirmed the loan. Don’t worry about it, the bills will be paid.”

“I’m just... I guess I’m just a little guilty for enjoying myself.”

“Nonsense. You need it! You’ve been stuck in that hospital for a good month,” he poked her on the nose. “You need to get the gloom out of your head, for him.”

She laughed and adjusted her chair closer to her husband and sank in his embrace. “A shame that American job didn’t work out.”

“Liars and cheapskates,” Alesso grimaced, “I should have seen it coming; too much money and no contract. But don’t worry, I found another in Milano, legit this time. Our people.”

“Construction work again?”

“Of course,” he smiled and kissed her forehead. She didn’t have to know. Better for everyone, so long as the money came this time.

The intermission was almost over and Alesso watched various audience members walk in and take their seats. One such sight had him pale and sweating, throat dry and stuck in between breaths. Hard to forget a face, especially one that killed of most of his _construction crew._ Either of the faces, really. The doctor looked a lot less ruffled, no cuts or blood on his face this time, hair pristine and combed in position. A role model look of a high-brow gentleman enjoying a night out in one of the more expensive open theatre plays. No such composed image fit a man who skinned people and shoved flowers in their oozing remains. His company was unsettling and somehow not the least bit strange – that duplicitous American with a cut in his stomach and a pet dog. No sign of the dog here, clearly, and if his walk was anything to go by, his injury was less of an issue. Alesso remembered the last time he saw him, the moment when he thought he’d see nothing else ever; that was an angry ghost of a man compared to the put together sight of him today.

The doctor was first to sit, eager and attentive towards the stage where the orchestral members were prepping to start while the stage was yet hidden behind curtains. It was probably because Alesso stared too long and too obvious, not even blinking in his disbelief, that the American noticed him when he cast a look around before sitting. He smiled after a moment of long exchanged looks and directed him a single wave of recognition before sitting next to the doctor.

“Do you know that guy?”

How unfortunate that Marina should noticed. Even worse was his mouth that fumbled without though because how does one even think in such a moment. He was lucky she didn’t turn to register his slack-jawed look.

“Uh, c-construction.”

“Oh, was he with you on Elba?” She smiled and looked more attentively in their direction. “Is he from Rome?”

“No,” Alesso said as he turned away, tried to settle his heart and the sweat on his brow as composure was not easy to find. “Far from it.”

+++

A hilltop hotel promised a great panoramic view, especially when the vast expanse of the sky took on a deep blue hue. The city was alive with golden light. From afar, the dome of the Sistine Chapel could be seen and what looked like a ten minute walk away was the ancient Colosseum. Will found the best sort of compliment for such a view was to shut up and stare at it with mild disbelief until it stopped being special. The last part never happened.

“How long are we staying?” Will asked. Unfinished business in Rimini would require their attention soon, and he doubted Hannibal would forget that of all things.

“Only for the weekend.”

Will was certain they didn’t come here just for the view and it took some prodding but the real reason unveiled itself quickly. There were no sharp refusals strong enough to dither Hannibal in his plans. Every _I don’t like theatre_ was met with a _How can you claim not to like a form of entertainment you’ve never experienced?_ A valid counter argument, Will had to admit, and the probable reason he eventually caved in over a divine plate of _Spaghetti alla Carbonara_. The divinity of the dish probably had something to do with the five star rating of the hotel and less so with their location. It was just pasta, but fine to a point that Hannibal expressed the rare compliment for another’s dish. The man’s good mood deflated when Will left for the bathroom and returned with a paid cheque.

Will spent the next afternoon acquainting himself with The Barber of Seville on Hannibal’s tablet. It was already a guarantee he wouldn’t understand a damn thing about the opera, but maybe reading some pointers online would help. There was a lot less reading happening, though. Hannibal got lured out of the bathroom where his hands worked on the knot of his tie to the sound of _Largo al factotum_. The aria was famous even to the common ear, a deduction Hannibal established when he saw the growing smile on Will’s face as he listened.

“Yeah, of course I know that one. _Figaro-here, Figaro-there,_ everyone knows that one.”

He beckoned Hannibal over to take a seat next to him and find out exactly from where he knew it. The video Will found was grainy and pixelated, showing its age, but it served its purpose. The title _The Rabbit of Seville_ made a little more sense to the man when the video started playing but he still observed it with a puzzling look, like he had never seen something like that.

 _And who in their right mind has never seen Looney Toons?_ Will would have asked had it not occurred to him that that story would require better bait and a lot more time. There were plenty of people in this world who did not have the safety of a stable home in their youth or a television set. A person who knew death and hunger as a child was unlikely to know the accomplishments of American animated television.

Never too late to learn, though. The smirk on Hannibal’s face as he watched a few more clips, ones that showed Franz Liszt’s work rendered to comedy in the hands of a tux-wearing rabbit, felt like a personal accomplishment to Will. Unfortunately the night wasn’t set to end in merry melodies but loud tenors.

The open theatre was stuffed with people and while the night air may have been cool, it did not ease Will. Too many people, too many eyes; he felt every ounce of himself suspicious. Hannibal expressed no such worry, finding instead comfort in crowds and large numbers – an invisibility. A sound concept but not one Will was fond of working with.

When the opera started, Will had to fight off a few unwanted yawns, tried his best not to fidget too much or draw attention to himself. But no one was paying attention – all the eyes were captivated by the stage and most of the audience was not even present in spirit to notice a man cross and uncross his legs. His companion most of all. When Will turned towards Hannibal, he gave no sign of registering. Eyes sharply set on the stage, barely blinking, and with a look of buoyancy.

Perhaps what Will needed was a different point of view, a look through a different set of eyes, like Hannibal’s. The play was a comedy, and while the words he couldn’t understand, half the humour was right there in the movements of the actors; in the ways they gestured their hands and waggled their brows, in the flaunts of bodies across the stage and the loudly pronounced emotions on their faces. A different kind of acting than the one he’d see on TV, more pronounced, more exaggerated, more emotional for men and women sitting in the back to notice. The range of voices was spectacular and Will had to wonder if there were microphones used.

“You have found a way to enjoy yourself,” Hannibal leaned in to whisper and it jolted Will out of his stage analysis. “I am glad to see that,” he said and turned back towards the stage, lost again in full to the whimsy of the actors.

* * *

 

 

**\--- Date Night ---**

They changed the licence plates on their rental – a black Fiat Punto, nothing fancy – and loaded in the bare necessities for their night job. When Will sat in the passenger’s seat, what first had his attention was the fragrance inside the car. Mint and lemon grass if he had to guess but he couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. When the engine roared and the car started backing out of the yard, his eyes caught a glint, something hanging from the rear-view mirror. A blue dragonfly on a bronze fishing hook, and it smelled of mint and lemon grass.

“Nice touch, with the smell,” Will smiled. As a swinging silhouette illuminated barely by the shine of headlights, it could fool a man for being real. Hannibal seemed to appreciate the sight of it and that was compliment enough.

Jonathan Hall left the dark confines of his rented beach house at around midnight. He did that every three or four night, came back around 4 AM with just enough swing in his movement to indicate he had been drinking. Never took the car; too much noise, too dangerous to drive back drunk. He’d leave his house in dead silence, the rest of his family clearly sleeping. He was not a hard man to decipher, easy patterns, simple things. Making him disappear would be almost effortless. Most of the effort would have to be applied to their soft movement inside the house.

Both of them agreed on a clean disappearance, something that wouldn’t leave his family quite so traumatized as finding his remains. Leftover chloroform was used on Martha as she slept to make sure she continued to sleep as her husband’s things were cleared from the room. All of his clothes and shoes were packed in a suitcase, his passport, more than half of their vacation money and any random belongings that could have been his – the blue toothbrush, the comb filled with dark short hair, the tacky-looking fanny pack with a pack of Marlboro’s and a zippo lighter. 

They loaded his stuff in their car and waited for him to come back, for him to stumble towards the door and spend too long trying to hit the keyhole. He was not aware of the movement behind him and Hannibal had his head in a lock and a gauze over his mouth. Will helped throw him into the trunk and they left the keys he had on himself in a hanging potted plant by the entrance. The car his family had was another rental, so they left it where it was.

“We can make this look good without even waking him up,” Will said after searching the man’s smartphone. He had his bank account PIN written among the notes. They stopped by a few ATMs and Will withdrew the guy’s money until he had none. He did so in a hoodie and a jacket that belonged to Jonathan; a treat for the camera footage and any investigator willing to dig this far into the case of a terrible husband gone missing.

When they got home, Will found himself on uncertain ground. Hannibal tied the man to the kitchen table and used excessive force on the ropes around the wrists and the ankles. The man was wide awake by then, just as Hannibal wanted him, and tried to scream his way through the gag of his own dirty socks. All of his wriggling was useless and it served only to tighten his bonds and cut his circulation. His eyes begged, his words too would have probably begged and Will had to step away and out of the kitchen when they locked eyes for a desperate moment.

The man was trying, ok? He was trying. He wasn’t particularly good at what he was trying but he _was_ trying. They didn’t know enough to be honest, maybe those marks were an accident, a drunk one at that. Maybe he endlessly regretted it and maybe he apologised daily. Maybe the alcohol was his out from a dull marriage. Maybe he never wanted to marry but chose to do the right thing. And maybe he was even worse. A sugary scent clung to him; maybe he cheated as well. Maybe he didn’t give a shit and maybe he’d be the end of the people he loved. Too many _maybes_ fought around in Will’s head but all went mute with that familiar sound of skin tearing under a sharp knife. And that was a fact that made him shiver, the fact that it was a familiar old sound he heard under his own hands and with his own intention.

A lovely, lovely sound. The shivers jolting down his spine as he envisioned skin tear and blood surface were not particularly unpleasant.

Hannibal had a personal gripe with the man; he didn’t wait for Will to make up his mind, though some disappointment surfaced as he worked the scalpel across the man’s torso and felt no presence of Will in the room. He called out his name when he finished the vertical slice and waited. Will came after a few moments, changed into one of his white t-shirts and a pair of oil stained slacks. He licked his lips as he approached the table, this time eyeing the shallow red cut with more interest than the man’ crying face. He took position on the opposite end of the table and gave Hannibal an inquisitive look, blue eyes sparking with interest.

“So what are you planning?”

“I doubt the liver is worth much, the kidneys _might_ be. But I was thinking of making some tripe.” Will squinted at the unknown word and Hannibal clarified his intentions for tomorrow’s lunch, only a little, “We will need his stomach for that.”

“Okay, what else?”

“Well,” Hannibal looked the man over. He whined, snot making a mess on the side of the table where his head was resting, but Hannibal’s points of interest were mostly on his torso. “We could take the heart as well. The lungs might be a good candidate, unless he was far too fond of those Marlboro’s.”

Will seemed to have still been expecting something more of him. “Okay, what else? His legs?”

“We could take some meat from there as well, yes, but I really was not planning on over exaggerating.”

“Oh,” Will’s face filled with surprise. “I thought when we said we’d make him disappear, among other things, we’d also make him... you know... _disappear_ ,” his teeth clicked shut simulating a bite.

Hannibal smiled, charmed by the flow of Will’s thoughts. “A man like him would feed us for a long time, a lot longer than we should stay in Rimini. I am afraid it’s the ocean floor for the rest of him.”

The last few discussions varied between getting rid of his face – a sledge hammer and a knife won over acid because those teeth had to go as well – chopping him to compact bits – Hannibal made it clear how crude he found the use of an axe in such situations but he wouldn’t let Will do that job for him when the man was still technically recovering – and sinking his remains – the idea of sewing rocks in his torso was amusing to both.

“Now before we begin, be a dear and get me the rest of the morphine,” Hannibal said as he finally glanced at Jonathan’s face, swollen eyes red and ripe with tears. Hearing their discussion must have been difficult, but the night for him was only getting worse. “I would like for our guest to stay with us for as long as possible.”

 

* * *

 

 

**\--- Sleep II ---**

Will was acting strange all day. He borrowed the tablet several times and each time he returned it, the browser history had been cleared. The apartment they rented in Rome was well furnished and came with several empty cabinets and drawers in the living room, a place where Will would certainly put his clothes considering he preferred the couch as his bed. Except he didn’t this time, instead unloading his clothes in the built in wardrobe in the bedroom.

“Do you mind?” Will asked half way through when he felt eyes linger too long on his back. “I mean, I can put it back there, it’s just a little eas—”

“Feel free to use it, plenty of room,” Hannibal cut him off, uninterested in second-rate excuses. His peculiarity had to culminate in something and that was an interesting speculation.

That morning Will left to _buy some bread_ and came back a good five hours later, vaguely pissed at the language barrier and the _fucking directions._ He managed to remember the bread he set out to buy, which clearly wasn’t what he set out to buy. There was a bakery around the corner he claimed to have missed, but no one was that inattentive. The brown paper bag he came back with – the kind that might come from a pharmacy – didn’t get an explanation, and got stashed somewhere unknown pretty quickly. Will seemed a little stressed on top of it all. Hannibal noted the two fingers of scotch he had before dinner and the wine he had during dinner, the way Will’s talk meandered more than usual and when he was silent his mind would wonder miles away from the table.

Hannibal took some time for dessert that day, a little more extravagant than the usual. He noticed Will’s inclinations did not lean towards sweet but more bitter and doused in liquor. He catered to those sensibilities with the lava cakes he prepared, but Will politely refused after his several slices of grilled heart and salad. Hannibal’s food was hard to resist, though, even on a full stomach. He brought out a single lava cake for himself, and as soon as the spoon broke through the soft spongy shell and let the rich dark cream flow out, he had Will’s attention. Fragrant spicy rum drew Will’s nose in as a few cherries tumbled out for show.  

Hannibal did not taste the contents of his dessert spoon; he made it, he knew exactly what it tasted like. Instead he drew out the chair next to him and tapped on its cushion.

“Come,” he beckoned Will over, “just a taste.”

Will’s laugh was dismissive when Hannibal wouldn’t relinquish his hold on the spoon but he played along, rolled his eyes shut after tasting it and whispered, “Damn.” The cake slowly disappeared piece after piece in Will’s mouth with little objection to the hand that fed him, too engrossed by the flavour to complain.

“You didn’t even try it,” he said after licking clean the last piece from the spoon. Hannibal considered that hardly an issue; there was more in the kitchen and between eating his portion and watching Will’s tongue clean chocolate ganache off the spoon, the choice was a simple one. The man wasn’t shy about the lurid workings of his tongue, especially considering he ended it with the pull of a tie and a kiss rich with the chocolate still on his tongue. It lasted longer than usual, deeper. A different kind of hunger lying under their lack of drawn breath as tongues explored voraciously. Truly fine dessert, Hannibal though. Will twisted the tie around his hand, pulling him further in and Hannibal placed his hand on the soft bed of hair on the back of his neck. He thought the day’s mystery solved, all figured out and was about to move this somewhere a lot more comfortable before Will abruptly broke off the kiss.

“Need to use the bathroom. I’ll be a while,” Will said and left, not for the smaller bathroom down the hall, but the bigger on in the bedroom.

Hannibal was left to lick the chocolate off his lips and consider revisions. He was still fairly certain he knew where this was going, yet felt puzzled no less. After an hour the puzzlement grew to perplexity and after two he was baffled. The water was running non-stop and had been for over two hours by now.

Hannibal knocked twice on the bathroom door and said, “You’ve been in there for over two hours, are you planning on getting out at some point this evening?”

The answer came after a short silence and a cleared throat, “Have I? I don’t have a watch with me.” He promised to get out in a moment but the moment turned to twenty minutes of Hannibal reading the news on his tablet and wondering what Will could be doing that would need that much water.

 _Nothing_ seemed to be the answer. Will came out of the bathroom in a towel and with mild signs of moisture in his hair that indicated he took a shower probably two hours ago. More curious were the three fingers of scotch he was sipping on.

“Liquid courage,” he grinned, offering an answer to a question he must have read in Hannibal’s eyes. He drank it all with the few steps he had to make to get to the nightstand, left his glass and took Hannibal’s reading material out of his hands. “To try something different,” Will added as he made himself comfortable, straddling the other man’s lap. He continued where they left off back in the dining room, replacing the taste of chocolate with a well aged single malt.

There was no urgency in their slow roll of tongues, hands eager to slide over warmed skin as Will’s own fought with the tiny button holes of Hannibal’s shirt. His solution was to tear through and send buttons flying, something Hannibal found hard to hold against him, not right then and there at least. _Later,_ he thought as he pushed Will on his back to loosen the stiff knots he felt in the man’s shoulders.

“Or that,” Will’s voice struggled with an even tone when Hannibal’s lips reached his cock, when his tongue caressed the length of it. “We could just do that. I don’t mind at all.”

No, Will did not mind, and he minded even less when he felt two fingers push in him without warning. Hannibal had a good idea what to expect there after all the clues sat in place; a well lubricated hole used to intrusions. Will’s words lost form and meaning when the fingers bent and the mouth drew up and over him, tongue teasing at the tip of his cock.

“It would be a shame, don’t you think?” His fingers never ceased to work inside him, to bend and spread and make Will’s eyes roll. “Such a well prepared gift. It would be a shame not to use it.”

Will had to have a say in this and he waited for the exact moment when Hannibal dipped his head back down to his cock.

“Is this why you s-skipped dessert?” Will’s _reward_ was a third finger and he yelped and grabbed a fist full of Hannibal’s hair.

Winston scratched his paws against the closed bedroom door, worried by the sounds ripping through his master.

+++

Hannibal used pieces of cotton dabbed in medicinal alcohol to treat the lines on his back. A little hard to reach, even harder to see, but he was determined to get it done before he’d put on a shirt and go to bed. His only distraction was an arm reaching from behind the shower curtains and failing to grab something off the hangers. He passed Will the bathrobe in a quick move and was immediately back to treating the marks, some of which extended across his chest.

An aspirin waited for Will when he came out of the shower, wrapped snug in a white bathrobe. A pre-emptive strike against any sores he might make up with tomorrow. He would have gladly had two if he knew where more were.

“Cabinet, third shelf,” Hannibal said unprompted, and Will truly expected him to be referring to the aspirin but the doctor’s mind reading gifts were not a constant. A nail clipper was on that shelf.

“Yeah,” Will looked at his nails. They were clean now but before the shower they looked like they came from a crime scene. “I’ll get that fixed next time.”

“Already thinking about next time?” Will felt like he stepped on a land mine when the words left Hannibal through grinning teeth.

“Quid pro quo, you hear?” Will diverted slightly, “I’m not going to be the only one going through this shit again.”

“ _This shit,_ ” Hannibal mimicked with a wry smile, “You make it sound as if you had a bad time.”

Will’s lips twitched upwards when their eyes locked briefly in the bathroom mirror. The night was a long one and it cost them a pair of ruined sheets and some gently bruised dignity. There was some pleading involved, a fact Will would adamantly deny even with all the pleasure it got him. He cleared his throat and went for the toothbrush when the heat of their gaze went on for too long and a far too recent experience threatened to overtake his senses.

“Should I count the abrasions you gave me in the equivalent trade?” Hannibal picked out another piece of clean cotton and dabbed it into some alcohol. “Or would you prefer I come up with something else?”

“Oh no,” Will squeezed out too much toothpaste, “no-no-no, there will be none of _that._ Listen, I know it was on your mind today and I’m glad you held back on asking, but I don’t want your hands around my neck and you don’t want mine around yours.”

They stopped their communication through the mirror and turned towards each other. “And why is that?” Hannibal asked.

“I don’t need to explain the first one. As for the second one,” Will paused a moment, wondering if he should be blunt about it or pick his words carefully. “I’m not to certain I could stop myself.”

Will thought his candour would be disarming, though his words would inspire the opposite of provocation, but the look on Hannibal’s face told him the man heard exactly what he wanted to hear.

“Your first issue,” Hannibal pulled him in by the flaps of his bathrobe, “can be fixed.” Will raised an eyebrow at that but got silenced quickly with a biting kiss. “The second one is not a problem that needs fixing.”

+++

A lazy wake under warm heavy blankets, clean soft sheets dragged over exposed skin and tangled among limbs. When Will bumped his elbow into something under the sheets, something in bed with him, his mind went through a short circuit. One of those mornings when it took him ages to remember where he was let alone who he was, the kind that came after an age long sleep. Will turned to see dark eyes, sharp and awake one a body that lay horizontal with him, close enough to feel breath on his skin. Recognition came when Will took note of the hand over his abdomen, a hand that wasn’t his with fingers that slid with a feather-light rhythm over scarred tissue.

“Don’t,” Will hissed, vexed, and grabbed the wrist with the intent of pulling it away. The hand fought his efforts and pushed down over his injury, tiny stabs of ghostly pain shooting through him and Will opened his mouth with silent painful protest.

Hannibal leaned over him, covering the open mouth with his own and turning the rising growl in the depths of Will’s throat in to unwilling pleasure.

“I don’t want you to forget how you got this,” Hannibal’s hand never left the scar as he spoke, inches away from the lips he warmed a moment ago. “Neither of us should, it is for the better.”

Will licked his lips, brows knitting together in quiet concern that the other tried to mellow with a kiss to the forehead.

“What would you like for breakfast?”

Will got served breakfast in bed after displaying chronic unwillingness to leave it, but afterwards came the charming surprise – a sewing kit, a handful of buttons and a white shirt.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first of all let me vomit some thanks. A great big thank you goes out to any and all that commented on this work - greatest form of motivation right there. An equally grandiose thank you goes to all the silent readers that left their mark on this work - your numbers were also very motivational and I'm gonna assume you enjoyed yourselves one way or another. 
> 
> That being said, let's talk sequel. For the few that are generally interested in what I'll be doing next, I direct you to [read this post](http://fourth-axis.tumblr.com/post/103312684798/hannibal-au-fics). The rest of you that are only interested in a sequel to this work and this work only, here's the TL;DR - There will be one, currently only a skeleton of an idea that needs more meat. When? I don't know, but not soon; there's something else I want to get off my mind first. What will it be about? Murder husbands in Paris, probably. A case-fic mish-mashed with the struggles of a dangerous life together and some things just never changing. 
> 
> Once again, many thanks for reading! Sorry about the possibly mediocre finisher but, ehh, not gonna lie, I think this shit's offensively cute and wrong and I enjoyed writing it even when I was coughing my lungs out :D

**Author's Note:**

> Pardon the mistakes. Dyslexia.


End file.
